


Which Makes Neil Feel Like James Bond

by Untherius



Series: Adrift [5]
Category: Emberverse - S. M. Stirling, Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Angst, Celtic Woman, Coming of Age, Gen, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 54,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untherius/pseuds/Untherius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pair of covert incursions into the heart of Ireland barely two weeks following the Change event leave Neil feeling very much like James Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dublin, Ireland  
March 26, CY 1, 2012 AD

Neil Perry crouched in the bow of a longboat launched from _Loriesha_. He watched the schooner retreat astern, then turned his attention to the approaching shoreline. A long line of chalky cliffs stretched for some distance as a white wall shining in the deepening twilight.

He resisted the urge to check his absent watch. It had been battery-powered and he'd left it behind in Mountain Ash. The time was of little consequence anyhow. Things were done on a more-or-less event-oriented schedule. He guessed they'd hit the water-line with barely enough light to see. A sliver of the crescent moon hung in the sky. He grinned.

“I feel like James Bond,” he said

“How's that?” Chloe Agnew asked from a seat behind Neil's.

“You know, dangerous missions into unfamiliar territory, high-end weaponry...” He brandished the small composite crossbow he carried. “...covert operations...”

“Covert operations?” Chloe protested. “Have you actually _watched_ any Bond?”

“Of course I have,” Neil retorted.

“Then need I remind you,” said David Downes, “about the tank though the streets of Moscow? Or pulling a small jet plane up to a petrol station? Or the parasail with the Union Jack emblazoned on it?”

“James Bond,” said Andreja Malir, “leaves a trail of wanton destruction, broken bodies and broken hearts.”

“Well...ai,” said Neil, “but he's the best black-ops secret agent MI-Six...oh, bother, just let me have my delusions for the nonce, will you?”

“Just don't let it distract you,” said Chloe.

“Don't worry, I... _squirrel_!”

“Cheeky.”

“Let's focus, shall we?” said Orla Fallon from near the stern. “And keep our voices down.”

“Do you really think,” said Chloe, “that anyone's going to be watching the sea from a golf course?”

“Who knows?”

“Please don't start singing.”

Orla cocked her head in the gloom, her hair shining slightly.

“It's not that I dislike that song, it's just...well, it would be distracting. And your voice carries. Sing it when we return, okay?”

“Very well,” said Orla at length.

Neil glanced back at shore. “Right, people. We're nearly there. Does everyone remember the route?” Grunts of assent circulated about the boat. “Good. Remember, we'll have to rope up first thing. Once Orla raises the invisibility spell, no one will be able to see us, including each other. It'll be just like we practiced. Any questions?” There were none. “Good.”

He turned back toward shore. The cliffs towered above them. They'd have been dwarfed by the cliffs of Dover, so perhaps “towered” was a bit of an overstatement--darkness seemed to amplify such things. “Be ready,” he whispered.

After several long moments, the boat lurched slightly, its keel grinding against the sand. Neil and his party bounced out of the boat. Neil at once shoved at its bow, pushing it back out to sea, its now lone occupant straining at the oars. He exhaled, feeling the tension of the situation. The boat was leaving for the mother ship and wouldn't return until just before sunrise some eleven hours later. It was do or die.

No one spoke a word as everyone roped up, just as they would were they climbing a mountain. Chloe took point. They'd gone over their route on the map, but she knew the immediate territory better than anyone. Like they'd practiced during the trip from Scilly, she'd use rope tension to guide the others. Neil took second position, followed by David Downes and Andreja Malir, Orla bringing up the rear, staff in-hand.

Neil tested everyone's ropes mainly by feel. It was dark enough that the cliff above them stood out only as a grey wall against the night. It wouldn't be long before it would vanish completely. He grunted at a motion of dark against dark as Orla made the necessary gestures and heard the utterances accompanying her activation of the invisibility spell. Neil briefly wondered why invisibility was really necessary. Even with the faint moonlight, he could barely see. Yet he knew it was likely their route would bring them within the light radii of multiple campfires, torches, and so forth. Even with the death of electric lighting, they were still skirting the southern edge of a 1.8-million-person population center, which meant an extreme likelihood of running into someone.

He felt the rope go taut, pulling him to the left and down the beach toward the cleft in the scarp they'd seen during their approach. It didn't take long to reach it. They slowed down, the rope tension leading him and the others up and a bit to the right. Their way was initially steep and strewn with rubble and vegetation, their footing unstable. Twice, he nearly rolled his ankle. Once, Chloe slipped and he had to catch her, nearly dropping his weapon.  
After maybe twenty feet, the grade eased. He heard and felt gravel crunching beneath his feet. It sounded loud in the silence, a silence that was downright eerie when one considered that there should have been a lot of city noise. A marina lay just to the south and a set of railroad tracks barely 500 feet from where he stood.

Chloe pulled them further to the right and up a grade. They followed what might be called a Jeep track for another thirty feet before negotiating a barbed wire fence. They crouched on the verge of the Woodbrook Golf Course. Neil briefly mused on the fact that it was unlikely to be used as such for a very long time. That was just as well. He disliked golf anyway and felt it to be a severe waste of space. Now, however, he was glad of the large expanse of clipped grass. It would make the next leg of their journey easy and quiet.

They stood still for a minute or two, listening in the darkness. There was nothing, no sound at all, not even the hooting of an owl. It made Neil uneasy. He'd made remote observations from Loriesha. Those had been difficult with the setting sun in his eyes, but he'd needed to make sure he and his party weren't going to be stumbling into any knots of refugees. Though it had been a week and a half since Earth had Shifted, the situation back in Wales had led his father to believe both that people might not be inclined to stay in their homes, especially those that had been destroyed by fire, and that the army might have decided to make use of places like golf courses. Fortunately, there'd been little indication that Woodbrook had become anything other than just another tract of lawn.

Satisfied, Neil gave Chloe the signal, tapping gently on her shoulder. Then they were on the move again, Chloe pulling them toward the left and in the general direction of the M-11 road.

* * *

Neil's party came to a halt near a roundabout along Dublin Road. The place normally controlled traffic leaving and entering the M-11 limited-access road. A small, raised brazier stood at the edge of the circle of green at the roundabout's center and supported a small campfire that cast limited light. Even that small bit of light seemed to cut through the utter darkness. It was currently guarded by four men wearing the uniform of the Irish army. Neil took in a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it back out.

The invisibility spell Orla had woven around him and his party allowed light to bend around them. That had the general effect of rendering them invisible, but only more or less. Invisibility, in point of fact, was really nothing of the sort. In reality, they'd appear as a sort of distortion, blending into their surroundings, making the spell more of a camouflage. They could still be seen, in a manner of speaking, but only if the viewer were looking for them. Even then, the eye would tend to slide off of them as a function of the way the light bent as it wrapped.

Uncle Howell had gone on to explain it further, but a lot of the physics went over Neil's head. He supposed he might have grasped more of it, had he actually been paying attention in secondary school physics class instead of focusing on the botanical studies and building his databases for the Ingarians. There were occasions, like the one before him, when he'd wished he'd made different decisions, but he otherwise never regretted doing what he'd done. Every time he'd had doubts, all he'd had to do was to look at an Ingarian and all those doubts had been summarily shattered.

Neil brought his mind back to the present. It was time to test that invisibility. He tapped Chloe on her shoulder and felt the rope tighten as she advanced. They kept to the edge of the asphalt to avoid any unnecessary gravel-crunching. Neil felt nearly everything through the soles of his soft leather shoes. “Shoe” was a bit of an overstatement, in his opinion. They were more like what Americans called “moccasins,” only more form-fitting. They were the next best thing to going bare-footed. Neil kept his weight mostly on the balls of his feet, rather than walking with the usual heel-toe stride. Their footfalls were nearly silent that way.

He kept his eye on the soldiers' crossbows. Evidently, they'd discovered the uselessness of gunpowder. Apparently, there was some sort of curfew. That, or people were beginning to riot as food ran low. He supposed both were likely. He didn't bother to look at the ground. It was dark and he couldn't see his own feet anyway. In truth, he wasn't sure how he could see at all. Clearly, there were a lot of other things about how magic worked that he didn't understand. Maybe the Ingarians were right. Maybe it was enough to accept _that_ magic worked without trying to grasp _how_ it worked. He was pretty sure that was going to become quite relevant in the Shifted world.

Neil tightened his grip on his own weapon, which he'd spanned and loaded shortly after leaving the golf course lawn. It didn't take long to pass through the roundabout and there was no sign the soldiers had any idea he and his party were ever there. He had a brief urge to carve “Neil was here” onto something...maybe the dead lorry just visible at the edge of the firelight. But that would make noise and draw undue attention.

Ignoring the usual traffic control laws, they padded along the off-ramp and onto the highway. Like they'd seen on the large highways in Wales, the roadway was peppered with dead vehicles. Many of them sat on the road shoulder where their drivers had coasted them after their engines had stopped. A few of them sat in the middle of the road. There was just enough moonlight to see that much, but not enough to see any details and Neil was glad of that. He wasn't sure he wanted to see charred skeletons staring out at him. That would have made him feel like he was in a zombie movie. On the other hand, maybe such things would further cement in his mind that the world was, in fact, post-apocalyptic.

Neil tapped Chloe on the shoulder, signaling her to pick up the pace. They'd need that in order to make it to Knocklyon and back before dawn. The moon would be down by midnight and Neil wanted to make as much use of its limited light as possible. That meant pushing for a good two-mile-an-hour pace. He could easily do three on his own in full daylight. But he knew going two in the dark roped together would be a challenge. Still, they didn't know what they'd find once they'd reached Chloe's house and something told him they'd need as much time as they could. After a couple of minutes, everyone found their walking rhythm. Neil had to admit that it was a lot like Norse footslogging. That made him smile.

* * *

Neil glanced westward from his position near the intersection of Knocklyon Rd. and Idrone Ave. The crescent moon sank toward the horizon. He figured they might have a half-hour of usable moonlight left, for all the good it would do them. A crescent didn't yield much of it anyhow.

As he'd hoped, their passage from shore had proceeded without incident. That hadn't done much to ward off the heavy sense of foreboding that still clung to the back of his mind like so much slug slime. When they'd begun their trek, candle and lamp light had shone from at least one window in most houses. As the hours and distance had crept by, the lights had gradually gone out as people presumably went to bed. A few remained lit. Neil supposed that while there was likely some sort of curfew in effect, people otherwise set their own schedules.

He knew the feeling. He'd had a designated bed time as a boy, but had often secretly read or played computer games after retiring to his room. He suspected one or both of his parents had been aware of it, but they'd never said anything. After the Ingarians had essentially crash-landed in his living room, his late-night activities had turned to botanical research.

They'd passed several more sentry points along the way. Each one seemed intended to control people's movements, and would probably remain that way until things settled down. Neil figured that sort of thing was only natural in an emergency. Yet he also knew full well things weren't _going_ to settle down. He and his had simply and quietly padded right through, twice within inches of one of the soldiers.

Neil could see the fear in the eyes of the men posted at each sentry point, even in the yellow light of the fires—some oil-burning, some gas-fed--that illuminated those intersections. He didn't know what they'd been told and he'd had to fight the urge to ask. Just that thought alone amused him. He imagined a supposedly well-trained soldier shrieking like a little girl from a disembodied voice coming out of nowhere.

Hopefully, they'd find Chloe's mum and sister and they'd have some useful information. Otherwise, the tension was so thick, he could have cut it with a knife and he wasn't even an empath!

“Something's not right,” said Chloe softly.

Neil almost jumped and he had to physically restrain himself from crouching down. Not that it would have done any good, even if they hadn't been invisible. He also wanted to shush Chloe, but there was something in her voice that went far beyond the underlying nervousness they all felt. “What?” he asked quietly.

“Don't know,” she replied,

Neil exhaled in frustration, then mentally centered himself. “I need more than that,” he said calmly.

“What's that smell?” she asked.

“Burnt stuff,” said Andreja. “Old oil...jet fuel...wood...”

“How do you...?” David asked.

“My uncle's an aircraft mechanic.”

“And burnt flesh,” added Orla.

Chloe gasped and Neil felt the rope tighten so abruptly, he nearly lost his balance. Chloe pulled them through the darkness and around the corner. Neil glanced to his right at the several torches that burned here and there in the parking lot of the Knocklyon Shopping Centre...or, rather, what had been such.

It was hard to see much. He could make out a large tent, probably guyed to concrete blocks, a pile of metal at the far end of the parking lot, and a low hump of something covered with a large tarpaulin. Several soldiers strolled about on patrol. Otherwise, the place was a mess. He couldn't see much of the building, but the distinct tang of recently-burned wood, presumably petroleum products, and God knew what else, hung in the air like a fog.  
After another hundred feet, Chloe yanked them to the left. The faint light from the nearest torch behind them was enough to see a pair of entry pillars supporting a gate. A small sign on one read, “Idrone House.” The right half of the wrought-iron gate was bent inward. A large branch, probably from one of the nearby trees and easily large enough to have caused the damage, lay across it. Neil heard Chloe utter a soft squeaking sound as they quietly negotiated their passage, being careful not to make any noise.

The vegetation next to the street blocked much of the meager firelight from the mall behind them. In front of them, the white front of Idrone House, Chloe's home, shone dimly in the darkness. It stood out from the night as little more than a rectangle of grey. At least, it _should_ have been a rectangle. Its north end looked like it had been chewed by something very large. Neil suddenly had a very bad feeling.

Chloe shrieked in alarm. Neil felt the rope jerk, then stop, accompanied by a series of vibrations. He felt the invisibility spell fall apart from around him.

Neil had just enough magical ability to detect when magic was being done, but that was about it. He'd tried to explain to several people over the past several days that magical ability was not quite like in “Harry Potter,” despite what Uncle Howell had said at the meeting. In those books, one could either use magic, or one couldn't. The reality was rather more complicated. It was still true that one could either use magic, or not. However, even if one couldn't, a mage could still devise a magical tool to be usable by a non-mage. Furthermore, magic-users possessed varying levels of power and various specific abilities. Magical ability really had a lot in common with non-magical ability—music, hand-eye-coordination, numbers, people skills, athleticism, and so on.

Neil saw Chloe run toward the house, visible as a shadow within shadow. He grunted, untied himself, then pelted after her.

“ _NO!_ ” she shrieked as she ground to a halt in front of the front door.

“Keep it down,” growled Neil through clenched teeth as he nearly skidded to a stop behind her.

Chloe tried the door, but it was locked. “Mum!”

Neil clamped a hand over her mouth. “I said,” he said as he leaned his head toward her ear, “shut it. I know you're afraid for your family, but going bonkers on us won't help. Now, get a grip. Can you do that for us?” He felt Chloe lick his palm. “And stop that,” said Neil, undeterred by the licking. Chloe grunted and Neil removed his hand, then wiped it on his trousers.

The others trotted up to them. “Door's locked,” said Chloe, her voice trembling.

“Do you have a spare key anywhere?” David asked.

“No.”

“Does anyone know how to pick a lock?” Andreja asked.

“Move,” said Orla sternly. Neil had to literally pull Chloe out of the way.

The tip of Orla's staff glowed green for a moment. Then a blast of magical energy shot soundlessly out of it and hit the door. The door creaked briefly, then shattered inward with a loud _CRACK-POOMP_. Hundreds of shards of wood bounced around inside the house.

“Orla!” scolded Chloe. “That door was solid oak!”

“Nalf,” oops, said Orla. “Sorry.”

“Well, that had to be noticed,” said David nervously.

“Then we'll have to hurry,” said Neil. “And we should still keep it down.”

Without another word, they all slipped inside. Shards and splinters of wood crunched under their feet. The unmistakable odor of burned, but water-doused, wood filled the air, underlain with the stench of rotting meat.

Neil heard rustling as everyone unshouldered their packs and placed them against a wall. There were more sounds as everyone rummaged for the magically-enchanted torches everyone carried. Neil was glad they didn't need to carry batteries.

“Ileha,” said Chloe. Greenish-yellow light appeared from the business end of the formerly battery-powered torch she held. The others did the same, except for Orla, who kindled a greenish glow at the end of her staff.

“I'm rather jealous of that, by the way,” said Andreja to Orla.

Orla chuckled slightly. “I'd teach you how, but it's rather complicated.”

Neil pulled the wide elastic band holding his own small, now magically-powered, LED head-torch over his head. “We split up,” he said.

“What?” said Andreja.

“What do you mean, 'what?'” said Neil. “It's not like we're going to encounter the undead or anything.” He picked up his crossbow and held it at the ready. “But you never know if someone's going to try to konk you on the head.”

“What?” Chloe protested. “It's my house!”

“Yes, but we broke and entered. And your family doesn't know the rest of us.”

“Well...” Chloe turned around. “Mum! Naomi!” she yelled.

“Stop that!” barked Neil. “We don't want to be heard from the street. The torches will be obvious enough, but someone has to actually be looking to notice those.”

“Fine,” grumbled Chloe.

“Now, everyone, pick a place. Go in twos if you can.” He crept off toward the living room, the yellow-green light of his headlamp sweeping back and forth. Glints of glass gleamed in the light.

Neil toed some of it, but it was stuck to the floor. He knelt down and poked at it. It was partially melted and the flooring was heavily charred. He frowned and looked up. He was glad to have a head lamp, as it shone exactly where he looked and left both his hands free. It was only half as bright as the LED's had been under full battery power, but he wasn't about to complain.

The light glinted off of something else across the room. He walked over to it, glass crunching under his feet. It was a good thing his uncle had put a durability spell on his shoes, else the glass could easily have shredded them and then his feet.

Something large, metallic, and heavily scorched sat at the far end of the room. It was roughly cylindrical and maybe a meter across. Another large piece of metal protruded from its top. Beyond it, a large gash was visible in two exterior walls, as though a track-hoe had been busy dismantling the building. That was preposterous, as Chloe's family had been living there and the place had historical significance.

Neil looked up to see an equally large hole in the ceiling. More scorched and melted metal and charred wood was visible. It was clear what had happened. An aircraft had crashed. Based on the nature of the damage to the house, Neil surmised the primary impact site was across the street at the shopping center. He shuddered as he realized the large, low, tarpaulin-covered lump was probably several rows of bodies, probably unidentified, pulled from the crash.

Then part of the plane had sheered off, hurtled across the street, severed the limb that had damaged the gate, crashed into the house, and caught fire. How that fire hadn't burned the whole place down, he didn't know. The wet smell told him it had probably been raining at the time, or at least fairly recently. But rain alone would hardly have been enough to extinguish a fire caused by burning jet fuel. A local fire department could have put it out, but that would have necessitated both enough sustained pressure in the municipal water supply--which would have been possible perhaps for a few days following the Shift event—and some means of delivering that water.

Based on what Neil had seen in Wales, where the plumes from fires had risen continually for days, he suspected that most fires had simply burned themselves out. The smell of smoke and ash outside had been quite powerful and suggested widespread damage throughout the neighborhood. But under cover of darkness, it had been impossible to see the extent of that damage. He supposed that the rogue shard of airliner could easily have severed at least one water pipe, which could have subsequently extinguished the resulting fire, but would also have gone dry when the water pressure dropped. On the other hand, wouldn't that much water have prevented the fire from starting in the first place? He supposed those questions may well remain unanswered.

A yelp from the other end of the house caught his attention. He turned and pounded his way back across the broken glass and debris, which poked his feet horribly. Sounds of rapid foot-falls sounded from the main staircase as he ran past it. Rounding a corner, he skidded into what had been the kitchen, from the look of it. Everyone's lamps cast deep shadows around the room.

Half its exterior wall and part of an interior one were missing. From the look of things, something had blown in from the impact site, swept through the kitchen, and torn out through the back wall. A beam had fallen from above and pieces of wood and brick, probably the remains of a fireplace, lay scattered about. Some of it was scorched. The smell of rotting meat was quite strong. Chloe stood near the center of the room, gazing down at something, and hyperventilating.

“Ya-Chloe?” said Neil. “What is...” His voice trailed off as his own eyes found what held Chloe's gaze. It was something small, not much larger than a rugby ball, with long fur and...bones. It looked like the remains of a small dog. He peered more closely at it, willing himself to ignore the smell. A few flies skittered over the carcass. Were it midsummer, there would likely have been maggots, as well. He pointed at something on the body. “That looks like a bite mark.”

Chloe squeaked. “You mean...something... _ate_...Mipsey?!”

“Looks like.”

“I knew it,” said Andreja. “It _is_ the Zombie Apocalypse!”

“Don't be silly,” said David. “Zombies aren't real.”

“Yes, they are,” said Neil.

“What?!” said David, Andreja, and Chloe in near-unison.

“That's what Uncle Howell says, anyway. He's been known to pull my leg from time to time, especially when Mari and I were children. But not lately, and not about that. And there's something migldi magldi in his voice when he's joking.”

“So there _is_ a Zombie Apocalypse, then?”

“No,” said Neil. “If there were, we'd have encountered at least one by now. No, I think a living person got hungry and ate the dog.” He peered at the animal again. “Doesn't look like they even cooked it first. Poor guy.”

“Girl,” growled Chloe. “Mipsey's...was...a girl.”

“Right...girl...sorry. So who ate her, where are they, and why did they just leave her here?” Neil stood up and looked around the room. The side of a kitchen island protruded out from the debris pile like boulder amid a rock-slide.

“What's that?” Andreja asked, pointing at something near the edge of the debris.

Neil craned his neck slightly. Then, “Bollocks!” He scooted over to where a human hand protruded from the base of the pile. It was covered in blood, making it blend into the darkness. He gently pressed his index and middle fingers to its wrist.

Chloe gasped. “No. No! No, no, no...”

“They're still alive!” sad Neil. “But barely.” Then he began to quickly move bricks, tossing them toward the back of the room. Andreja and David stepped in to help. “Be careful. We don't want to undermine whatever this is holding up.”

Chloe began to cry.

“Ya-Chloe,” said Orla quietly, “that's not helping.”

Brick by brick, Neil, David, and Andreja uncovered an arm, the head, and shoulders of a young woman with dirty-blonde hair and a face that looked not unlike Chloe's. She lay on her side. There was blood caked all around the young woman's mouth.

Chloe let out a sigh of relief and started to cry. She leaned forward. “Naomi?” Then she pointed at her younger sister's mouth. “She...she _ate_...Mipsey?!”

“Looks that way,” said Neil. “Probably kept your sister alive.”

“But...”

“Later, ya-Chloe,” said Orla.

“Her pulse is weak,” said Neil. “She's mostly-buried and I'm half-afraid to move much more of this debris. Some of it looks like it's propping up part of the floor above and some of the kitchen chimney.”

“We can't just leave her there,” said David.

“No,” said Neil, “we can't. But we also don't know the extent of her injuries and moving her could kill her.”

Chloe squeaked.

“We have to try,” said Andreja.

“She's right,” said Orla. She held the glowing end of her staff up to the wreckage and examined it. “Ya-Neil, how much clearance do you need?”

“Not sure. To get her out, maybe a centimeter. But like I said, moving her could kill her.”

“If we keep her neck immobile,” said Andreja, “could we move her then?”

“But her spine...” began Chloe.

“Mine was broken,” said David. “I think they can fix hers if it's broken, too.”

“So long as it's not broken above her heart,” said Neil.

Chloe squeaked again.

Neil exhaled and scratched his head. “Ya-Orla, how good are your medical skills?”

Orla gulped. “Erm...well, Sophie helped me refine the stasis spell.”

“But can you tell what's wrong with her?” Neil nodded toward Naomi.

Orla knelt down next to Neil and laid her hand on Naomi's forehead. “Well,” she said after a few moments, “her spine's intact. That's all I can tell you. My best guess is that all of this fell on top of her and she was just stuck here. But I won't know for sure until we get her out. I'm rather surprised she hasn't suffocated to death.”

“Can you lift any of this?” Neil asked.

“Ai.” Orla stood up and jammed the glowing end of her staff into the debris pile.

Neil began to move bricks just enough to free Naomi's other arm. “Ya-David? Would you give me a hand?”

David handed his torch to Andreja and squatted down next to Neil. David grasped Naomi's outstretched arm just above the elbow, and Neil grasped the still-buried one just below the shoulder.

“I want you to pull,” said Neil. “Gently, though. We'll come straight out and into the other room. Try not to bend anything.” Then he nodded to Orla.

Orla leaned on the staff. At first, nothing happened. Then the pile of bricks and timber started to vibrate.

“Pull,” said Neil. At first, Naomi didn't budge. The vibration quickened and suddenly, the entire pile shifted noticeably upward. Naomi's body abruptly lurched outward and Neil nearly fell over.

“Hurry up,” Orla grunted.

Neil and David pulled Naomi out of the pile and through the door, Chloe on their heels. He heard a loud _CLUNK_ , followed by some clattering, and another set of footsteps. The green glow of Orla's staff soon filled the room.

Chloe knelt down and took her younger sister's hand. “Naomi?” she said softly. “She's cold!”

“Probably shock,” said Neil.

“That's bad, innit?” Chloe asked.

“Yes,” said Neil, “very.”

Chloe squeaked.

Neil carefully rolled Naomi onto her back and gave her a cursory examination. “Extensive bruising...possible broken ribs and internal injuries...broken legs...severed foot...blood loss...probable dehydration and oxygen deprivation. And that's just what I can see. She's in bad shape. She'll make it, but only if we can get her back to Loriesha.”

Chloe began to cry.

“Ya-Chloe,” said Orla, “I need you to stand back.”

Chloe shook her head.

Orla took her friend's chin firmly between her fingers. “Your sister needs magical medicine. I need to put her in stasis. It's what Sophie did to me, Marido, David, and the rest when they found us in Pontypridd. It's the only way she'll survive the trip back.”

Chloe nodded, laid Naomi's hand gently across her chest, and stood up.

Orla knelt down, placed a hand on Naomi's forehead, and muttered something under her breath. After a minute, she stood up. “There. Now let's go find your mum.”

Neil led the way up the stairs. “Remember,” he said once he reached the top, “the floors of both wings are unstable. The north was hit by an airplane engine and probably a piece of wing. There's extensive fire damage downstairs, which is likely to be even worse up here.”

“Mum's room is this way,” said Chloe, as she gestured toward the north wing.

Orla and David slipped past Chloe and down the hall. Neil saw David disappear into a room. A moment later, Neil heard the clatter of a dropped torch and the erratic motion of its light. David reemerged and vomited against the base of a wall. Chloe rushed down the hall and ducked into the room herself. Neil saw the light move again. Then Chloe screamed and the light again fell clattering to the floor.

Orla rushed into the room, followed by Neil. What he saw challenged his own normally strong constitution. The room was a complete mess. One wall and part of the floor were gone. The entire room and all its contents—furniture, a bird cage in the corner, photographs on the wall--were badly charred.

A figure lay curled up on a bed in the middle of the room. Neil rushed over and felt for a pulse. After a few pregnant moments, he whirled around. “Ya-Orla! Get in here! Now!”

Orla sprinted into the room, knocking Chloe over on her way to the bed. She skidded to a stop at Neil's side and immediately repeated what she'd done to Naomi minutes before.

Neil turned around, strode back across the room, took Chloe by the arm, helped her up, and dragged her out into the hallway. The smell of bile tinged the air. He grabbed both her shoulders. “Ya-Chloe? That's your mother in there, innit?” Chloe nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Then I want you to listen to me _very_ carefully. Your mum's barely alive. In fact, she's nearly dead. She has...twenty minutes...at most.”

Chloe's tears started to flow like a pair of rivers.

“Ya-Chloe!” growled Neil. “I need you to focus! In the care of what was so-called modern medicine, she'd have no hope. Fortunately, Sophie can handle this. It's still going to be tricky and she's going to need help, but we _must_ get her back to Loriesha if she's to live. Here's what I want you to do. Find us a sheet. Then gather up whatever family heirlooms you want to preserve. Keep in mind that you have to carry it. David and I will carry your mother downstairs. After that, we'll need a way to transport her and Naomi back to shore.”

At first, Chloe stood there.

“Night's wasting,” said Neil. “We have six hours to retrace our steps and I hope I don't have to remind you of what awaits us on our return trip. You have a half an hour. Ya-Andreja, ya-Orla, would you two please help her? Extra hands will make this go faster.”

Chloe nodded, then went to it once Neil had released her. Their three lights disappeared into the bowels of the house. Neil reached into his hip pack and pulled out the small bundle that protected his magic mirror. He drew it out of its padded wrapping, sat down on the top stair and activated it.

After several moments, his uncle's face appeared in the glass. Howell smiled. “Good to see you, ya-Neil. How are things?”

“Not bad, all things considered.” Neil proceeded to update his uncle on their progress and on the situation. “Have that boat waiting for us at melgen as planned. I'll let you know if we're going to be late.”

“Good,” said Howl. “Don't get yourself killed. Your mother wants me to remind you that if you do, she'll make sure her ghost haunts yours in the hereafter.”

Neil chuckled. “Give my love to her, would you?” Howl nodded and the mirror again reflected Neil's own image. He re-stowed it and exhaled. He didn't want a boring life anyway.

* * *

A half-hour later, Neil stood in the drive outside Idrone House. He paced back and forth in the darkness. “What's taking her so long?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe we should have helped,” said David.

“We'd have been in the way. Besides, the three lightest people are in there and the structural integrity of that building still makes me twitchy.”

“Didn't your uncle say the Ingarians had two hours?”

Neil nodded.

“And isn't our deadline more or less arbitrary?”

Neil nodded again.

“So relax.”

Neil hrmphed and looked out toward the street. He was rather surprised none of their activity had attracted any guests. He looked up as three people lugged several large packages through what had once been the front door and off the low porch.

“What the bloody hell's all this?” he said, gesturing at the packages.

He was pretty sure he already knew the answer. For the last half-hour, he'd been listening to animated female voices echoing from inside the house, voices that belonged to Chloe arguing with Orla and Andreja over what they should bring and what they shouldn't. They'd even spent time during the voyage from Scilly going over exactly the sorts of things that should be saved and what should be left. Neil supposed there was a certain amount of emotion involved and he had to remind himself that much the same sort of thing had happened back in Wales prior to his own departure. In his case, though, the Ingarians in his family didn't have much of any sorts of possessions, let alone multiple generations of heirlooms, so the decisions had been rather simplified.

“They're the things I'm bringing,” Chloe growled.

“And foodstuffs,” said Orla brightly, “including several gallons of some exceptionally good vinegar.”

Neil shuddered, then exhaled and forcibly calmed himself. “Right,” he said, motioning to the trunk, bags, and boxes the three women had deposited on the ground, “open them up.”

“But...” Chloe began.

“You know our agreement, ya-Chloe. I have final say over what goes and what stays. Remember, we still have to transport all of this...” He nodded at the packages. “...and your mum and sister all the way back to shore. And there are only five of us.”

Chloe glared at Neil. A moment later, she ducked back into the house.

“Bloody hell,” grumbled Neil.

After a few minutes, Neil heard a sound off to the left, then a set of multiple foot-falls. There were two soft ones and four...oh, she couldn't be serious. Chloe walked up, leading a donkey.

“You've got to be kidding,” said Neil.

“She'll carry it,” said Chloe.

“How the hell are we going to get this past all those check-points?”

“We can make her invisible, can't we?”

“Yes and no,” said Orla.

“What?”

“First,” said Neil, “we'd never be able to disguise her hoof-falls, even if we were to wrap her hooves in cloth.”

“Second,” said Orla, “the invisibility spell and the stasis spell aren't compatible.”

“What? You mean it's one or the other?”

“Exactly so, ya-Chloe.”

“So we're going to have to fight our way out?” David asked.

“Looks like,” said Neil.

“I only know one offensive spell,” said Orla, “and it's lethal.”

Neil exhaled. “Then I guess there's nothing for it,” he said. “But we're still going to have to prune your packages. That donkey can't carry your family and your stuff both.”

“There's a cart in back.”

Neil sighed. “Of course there is,” he said, making no effort to keep the eye-rolling out of his voice. “Fine, go get it. And while you're doing that, I'll edit.”

Chloe and David disappeared into the darkness while Neil re-lit his headlamp and began to go through Chloe's packages. By the time she and David had returned with the cart, Neil had cut the intended load in half. Chloe began to protest. “Look,” said Neil, “if you can convince me that we really need to salvage things like...” He picked up something from his reject pile. “...a pair of four-inch stiletto heels, I'll change my mind.”

“I wore those to my first formal dance,” said Chloe.

“Not good enough,” said Neil bluntly as he dropped the shoe back onto the pile. “Look, we discussed all this as we sailed and you agreed. I don't expect you to be happy about it, but we do have to be practical. We said books and heirlooms. And a pair of designer pumps doesn't count.”

“You're a man.”

“Well,” said Andreja, “I'm not. Yet I agree with Neil. You'll have to let a lot of this go.”

“We're forging new lives,” said Orla. “The old world is dead or dying and it won't be long before a lot of it's remembered as a dream, if not forgotten entirely. You'll make new memories from new experiences.”

“Trust her, ya-Chloe,” said Neil. “She knows a thing or two about that.”

“Besides,” said Orla with a twinkle in her voice, “real mermaids don't need high heels.”

Chloe groaned and seemed to deflate in the darkness. “Fine. I'll do it your way.”

“Are we still going after her father?” Andreja asked.

Neil sighed. “Not sure.”

“I want to,” said Chloe, “but Mum would throw a fit if she were to wake up on the same ship with him.”

“She'd get over it,” said David.

Chloe laughed briefly. “You don't know Mum.”

“We're burning darkness,” said Neil. “If no one else objects, I say Mister Agnew's going to have to fend for himself. Naomi and Adele need medical attention and the stasis spell won't last forever. Neither will cover of darkness. We need to go.”

Without another word, they hitched the cart to the donkey, loaded their packs, Chloe's belongings and her unconscious family into it, and started off down the drive.

Chloe looked back and started crying. Orla stepped up beside her and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “It could have been worse,” she whispered.

“How are we going to get through the gate?” Andreja asked.

Neil walked up and pulled on the un-damaged side. It opened a few inches, then jammed against the branch. “Bother,” he muttered. “Ya-David, would you give me a hand with this branch?”

David stepped over and the two of them lifted. The branch didn't move. “I'm beginning to think,” said David breathlessly, “that the whole bloody tree fell down.”

“You might be right.”

“Well, ya-Neil,” said Orla, “you may just get to make your own James Bond movie after all.”

“What?” said Neil.

“Move,” said Orla.

Neil and David stepped out of the way. “James Bond taught us two things,” said Orla.

“Which are...?” Andreja asked.

“Never let them see you bleed.”

“Shouldn't be hard in the dark. And the other?”

“Always have an escape plan.” A blast of magical energy, accompanied by a greenish halo, shot out from the end of Orla's staff. It hit the gate, tore it off its hinges and dragged both halves, along with the branch, noisily across the street, coming to rest somewhere in the darkness.

“I'm glad you're on our side,” said David.

“I'm beginning to think,” said Chloe, “that we never really knew you at all.”

“Are we going to chit-chat,” said Neil, “or are we going to put at least _some_ distance between us and whomever's about to respond to that?”

Neil readied his crossbow and took point while Chloe led the donkey along behind him. Its hooves and the cart it pulled made far too much noise for his liking. Anyone trying to kill them could have done it blindfolded...well, maybe.

They were barely halfway between the drive and the intersection with Knocklyon Rd. when Neil heard shouts coming from the direction of the mall parking lot. He grunted. “A little faster, yashanli,” he said.

He heard footsteps running in the direction of Idrone House. He didn't think it would take long for whomever owned them to notice the donkey and cart, even in the dark. “Ya-Orla?”

“Nonfuth,” no problem, she said.

After a minute, Neil heard yelps of pain and confusion coming from behind them. The sounds faded as he and his party retreated along Scholarstown Rd. He was really beginning to wish his uncle had managed to get his magical doors to work again and something told him he was going to be doing so many more times over the next several hours.

“Remember,” said Neil over his shoulder as they rolled up several minutes later to the roundabout marking the junction of Scholarstown Rd. and Orlagh Grove—which still made him chuckle--“the official line is that we're evacuating.” It didn't hurt that it was the literal truth.

A soldier stepped up to them, cross-bow at the ready. “Out a little late, aren't we?” he asked.

Bollocks, thought Neil, just like at Culverhouse. “Depends on your point of view,” he said. He wished he'd paid a little more attention to his father and learned some diplomacy skills. If the elder Perry was unsuccessful talking his way around a division of hot-shot soldiers, what chance did a young man like himself stand?

The man's eyes narrowed. Uh-oh, thought Neil, wrong thing to say. “And just what point o' view would that be?” the soldier asked.

“The point of view of a few people just trying to get out of your hair,” said Neil. The soldier peered at Neil. “Fewer people,” he added, “fewer problems.”

“I'm not at liberty t' comment on that, sir,” said the soldier. He looked past Neil. “What's in th' cart?”

“Our things,” said Neil. “Just personal effects...nothing that would interest you. That is, unless you have a thing for women's night-nothings.” Neil knew there wasn't much of that in what Chloe had salvaged, let alone in what had cleared Neil's screening, but it sounded good.

“Let's have a look anyway, shall we?”

“No!” Chloe stepped forward. “There's...there's nothing you need to see.”

Neil cringed inwardly, hoping his slight twitch would go unnoticed in the firelight. The soldier turned his attention to Chloe. Neil tensed and prepared for a fight. He didn't think it would last long, nor would it likely go well. There were four soldiers and each of them had better aim and was better trained. He had five, including Orla. She alone was worth at least ten combatants, but only if she acted first.

The soldier's eyebrow went up. “Chloe? Chloe Agnew?”

“Do...do I know you?” Chloe asked.

“No, but me daughter's a fan o' Celtic Woman, an' you in particular.”

“Oh.”

“Wait here.” The soldier turned and jogged to the center of the roundabout.

Neil and Chloe exchanged glances. Neil raised an eyebrow and Chloe shrugged.

A minute later, the soldier returned with a piece of clean, white paper and a pen. He handed them to Chloe. “I don' suppose I could get yer autograph?”

Chloe smiled. “Erm...okay.” Chloe took the pen and paper, then paused. Neil exhaled and turned to present his back to Chloe. She took the hint and used it as a writing surface. After a few moments, she handed the pen and paper back to the soldier.

“Shame about yer house, Miss Agnew,” said the soldier.

“Yeh...” Chloe's voice trailed off as tears rose up in her eyes.

Orla stepped into the light and put an arm around Chloe.

“Orla Fallon?” said the soldier.

Orla sighed, extended her hand and raised an expectant eyebrow. Neil rolled his eyes and turned his back as Orla took the pen and paper, added her own signature and a short message to Chloe's, then returned it to the soldier. He looked past Neil again into the dark. “Who else is there?” he asked.

David and Andreja stepped forward. Orla introduced them. The soldier shrugged and again proffered the pen and paper and the pair added their own names.

“And the others?” the soldier asked.

“Erm...” David havered.

“Mairead...Marido,” said Chloe, “is on a ship off Bray, Hayley's on another in the Scilly Isles, Lisa Kelly, Meav, and Deidra weren't on tour, and the others...” She choked up.

“Bus crashed,” said David.

“Oh, bugger,” said the soldier.

Neil tensed. He didn't like dispensing so much information. It tended to complicate things and things were complicated enough already.

The soldier exhaled. “I'm afraid I'm still goin' t' have t' see what's in th' cart,” he said.

“What is this,” said Andreja, “the bloody Spanish Inquisition?”

“If 'twere,” said the soldier, “you wouldn't expect it.”

“We already don't expect it,” said Neil. “None of us expects any of this.”

The soldier nodded and moved toward the wagon. Orla stepped in front of him and leveled her staff at him.

“I'm very sorry,” said Orla, “but we just as insistently cannot allow you to look at what we have in there.”

The soldier didn't appear deterred. Instead, he pointed his crossbow at Orla. Neil swore to himself. That man had no idea what Orla could do and that made both of them highly dangerous to each other.

“Please,” said Orla sternly, “we have no quarrel with you. Do not give us one. I only know one offensive spell and it's lethal. Do _not_ force me to use it.”

“Spell? Are you witches?”

“It's my family, okay?” Chloe blurted. Neil stiffened. He was sure the situation was going to explode at any moment. “My mum and sister,” continued Chloe, “are in that wagon and...unconscious. We're taking them to Bray where we'll board a ship and they'll get help from a powerful magical healer! Please let us pass!”

“Think of your daughter,” said Neil. “Do you really want to orphan her? Because that could easily happen. There's been far too much death in the last week and a half. Please...I don't know what your orders are and frankly, I don't much care. But at least _try_ to be part of the solution. You have a choice here. You can either contribute to the deterioration of the situation, or you can take steps to improve it. If you let us go, I'll share with you what I know about what's happening. You might not believe it, but it'll be the honest to God truth. And no, we're not witches.”

Motion at the edge of the fire's light radius caught Neil's eye. He half-turned as one of the other soldiers raised his cross-bow. Neil saw Orla pivot and level her staff at the man. A high-pitched sound, not unlike the sing of metal wheels on railroad tracks, filled the air.

Moments later, the man's cross-bow and its loaded bolt shattered into thousands of splinters. He yelped in pain and alarm.

“I said,” growled Orla, “you shall not pass! What part of that do you not understand?” Neil was very glad she was on his side.

The soldier seemed to deflate. Neil couldn't see the expression on the man's face. He was still back-lit and the fire from the torch in the center of the roundabout had killed his night vision. After a moment, he shifted his crossbow and extended his hand. “Lieutenant Andrew O'Malley,” he said.

Neil shook O'Malley's hand. “Neil Perry.”

O'Malley looked over at his comrade. “You okay, Private?” he asked.

“Aye, sir,” the Private responded. O'Malley made a dismissive gesture and the other man retreated to the roundabout.

“Fine,” said O'Malley. “I'll escort ye to Bray. But just so ye know, I'm gonna catch a frightful lot o' flak o'er this. It could cost me career.”

“Believe me,” said Neil, “your career is the least of your worries.”

“But if yer wrong,” said O'Malley, “I'll personally arrest the lot o' ye.”

“I think I can live with that. Just no peeking in the wagon.”

O'Malley's eyes narrowed. “Besides yer family...an' I'm not sayin' I quite believe that...an' heirlooms, what else ya got back there?”

“Vinegar,” said Orla.

“Why?”

“I drink it.”

“Eh?”

“She...erm...drinks it,” said Neil. “Don't bother about it. People drink far more vile things in other parts of the world. Fermented yak's milk in Mongolia, for instance.”

O'Malley shuddered. “Right...got it. Well, then follow me. An' don't fall behind.” He turned and strode off. “Shamus, yer in charge.”

“But, sir...”

“Ye heard me, lad. I'll be back by shift change and then we can pretend this never 'appened, got it?”

“Aye, sir.”

Neil wasn't sure that was even possible. How were they going to pretend that? There was physical evidence, after all. The shards of crossbow all over the ground...which Neil supposed to could swept up. The ruins of the Idrone House gate and the shards of its front door...which were a little harder to explain. At least, Neil figured, he wouldn't be the one to have to explain it. He and his would be long gone by then.

* * *

“Ya know,” said O'Malley as the donkey cart trundled over the rubble strewn across the beach just north of Bray, “what with Chloe shriekin' all th' time an' Orla blastin' ev'rything in sight, it's a wonder the whole bloody Dublin Division ain't on our arses already!”

“I told you,” said Orla, “I prefer a straight fight to all this sneaking around.”

“No, you don't,” said Chloe. “You're mild-mannered and...oh, balls, I give up.”

“Orla's just blowing off steam,” said Neil.

“From what? PTSD?”

Neil peered at O'Malley in the pre-dawn gloom. “You have no idea,” he said after a moment. Then he turned to Orla. “Ya-Orla! Fughleha, miflik!” Signal flare, please!

“What's...?” O'Malley hadn't even finished the question when a bright green orb shot out from the end of Orla's staff. It arced high up in the sky, and hung there. “Huh.”

“And now we wait,” said Neil.

“Wait fer what?”

“You haven't been paying attention, have you? We have someone in a rowboat...ah, there they are.” Neil gestured toward the breakers. The longboat from Loriesha crashed through them on an intercept course.

“That wasn't there before,” said O'Malley.

“Yes, it was,” said Neil. “It was cloaked.”

“Cloaked? As in, Star Trek cloaked?”

“More or less. But this was magical, of course.”

“Of course.” They eye-rolling in the man's voice was obvious.

“You still don't believe in magic, do you?” Orla asked.

“Erm....”

The boat rode the last breaker into shore and ground to a halt on the sand. Neil and David grabbed the gunwales on either side of the bow and hauled it another meter onto the beach. “Right,” said Neil, “you know the drill.”

“Hold this,” said Orla, thrusting her staff into Neil's hands. He took it. He could feel the magic pulsing through it. Orla had told him she'd made it as a magical transceiver of sorts. But even if he were a mage himself, Orla had fashioned the staff such that only she could wield it. It was quite ingenious, really. Or maybe that was the only way she knew how to do it.

Neil stood there as Chloe, Orla, David, and Andreja walked briskly to the back of the wagon and carefully maneuvered Naomi out of it, then across the beach and into the boat.

“What's that?” asked the rower.

“My sister,” said Chloe.

The trio repeated the procedure with Adele. “Don't look,” said Chloe sternly.

“Why? Is there...?”

“Just don't!” snapped Chloe.

The four continued loading the bags, boxes, and packages from the wagon.

“Erm,” said the rower, “I didn't know there would be all of...this.”

“Neither did we,” said Neil. Frankly, though, he hadn't been at all sure what they'd find, let alone what they might be bringing back to _Loriesha_.

“Well,” said David, brushing his hands against each other once he'd stowed the final package, “I think that's it.” Truth be told, it had only taken one trip each. Neil's no-nonsense practicality had whittled it all down quite a bit back in Knocklyon.

Neil handed Orla's staff back to her as she and Chloe jumped into the boat. He turned to O'Malley. “As agreed, the donkey and cart are yours. Just...use them wisely, okay?” He turned and braced his hands against the gunwales. David and Andreja joined him as they shoved the boat back into the sea. Neil jumped in, then looked back. David and Andreja tarried at the surf line.

“Well?” Neil called. “Don't just stand there!”

“We're staying!” said David.

“What?!”

“We're staying,” repeated Andreja.

“You're not serious!”

“We're Dubliners,” said David, “born and bred. We're more useful here anyhow. We have information and Andreja can do magic. That's worth something and if it can help keep our countrymen and women from starving, than that's worth fighting and dying for!”

Neil knew they were right. It took guts, though. On the other hand, he wasn't entirely sure what he and the others were doing didn't require at least as much guts. He dug into his pouch, pulled out the magic mirror, and waved it toward shore. “You remember how to use this?”

“I think so,” said Andreja.

Neil flipped it through the air like a frisbee. Andreja caught it expertly. “Stay in touch!” Neil called. He hoped his uncle really could make more of the things.

He, Orla, and Chloe sat in the boat, watching the shoreline recede. “I guess it really _was_ like a James Bond movie.”

“How's that?” Orla asked.

“In all nice and quiet, then we shoot our way out.”

That brought a chuckle from Chloe. “You know,” she said, “Lisa likes...liked...James Bond...a lot. I suppose something like this is...somewhat fitting, don't you think?”

Neil nodded. “Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chloe Agnew, her sister, and their mother do, in real life, live in Idrone House in Dublin. I found no information on the house's interior, so I extrapolated based on photos of its front and birds-eye views on GoogleEarth. They do, in fact, own a donkey, though I don't know if they stable it at Idrone House or elsewhere. Chloe's father left her mother several years ago, hence his exclusion from the story. More information on this can be found by following the references at the bottom of Adele's Wikipedia entry http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adele_King which are apparently public record.


	2. Chapter 2

Loughmoe, Ireland  
March 29, CY 1, 2012 AD

Neil Perry dismounted his bicycle, bringing his spanned crossbow to the ready in the same motion.

“Really, ya-Neil,” said Marido indignantly. “This is my house. Well, my parents' house. Well...you know. The point is, do you really think we're in any...”

Her voice was cut off by the malevolent _tung_ of a crossbow and the _thrump_ of a longbow. A heartbeat later, a bolt sank into the post by the front gate, vibrating menacingly. Rosemary shrieked in pain and surprise as an arrow embedded itself into her shoulder.

Neil cursed under his breath as he and the others took cover. “You were saying, ya-Marido?” He raised his crossbow and loosed through one of the open windows. Another arrow answered, narrowly missing him. He grunted and set about respanning his weapon.

“Stop!” shrieked Marido.

“In case you haven't noticed,” said Neil, “they're shooting at us!”

“Maybe it's a misunderstanding.”

Another bolt parted Ray's hair. He yelped. “Well,” he said, “maybe one of us should explain it to them!” He sent a bolt of his own into the house.

“Not like that!” howled Marido.

An arrow thunked into the tree by Neil's head, then another into the gate post. He peered at one. Hmm...target heads...could be worse, but still... “Whose bright idea was it,” he said as he sent another bolt through a window, “to bring cross-bows?”

“Erm,” said Ray, “yours?”

Neil grumbled under his breath.

“I thought James Bond typically shot his way _out_ of a situation.”

“Slight miscalculation,” said Neil, re-spanning his weapon again.

“No, no, stop it!” yelled Marido. “Mum?!” she called out. “Dad?!”

Neil hoped, for the umpteenth time, that it really was Marido's adopted family holed up in her childhood home. The barrage stopped and he heard murmuring from inside the house.

“Mairead?” called a woman's voice.

“Ai, it's me! Why are you shooting at us?”

The front door opened and Neil saw a man, somewhere past middle-aged by the look of him, but still in visibly good physical shape, step out. He held a longbow in his hands, a target-headed arrow to the string. “We thought...are you alone?”

“No.”

The man raised the bow.

“Oh, for goodness sake, ya-Dad, put that down! I'm with friends!” she said as she stepped into the small courtyard in front of the Nesbitt residence.

Mr. Nesbitt relaxed his draw, then hugged Marido one-armed. A woman, also apparently past middle-aged, stepped out of the front door. “Oh!” she exclaimed, then propped her crossbow against the door frame and rushed forward to hug Marido. “You have no idea how good it is to see you!”

Marido nodded, but said nothing. Neil wasn't surprised. They'd made the journey specifically so that Marido could have what was likely to be a very interesting and possibly difficult discussion with her adoptive parents.

“Mairead, dear,” said Mr. Nesbitt, “you seem...tense. What's wrong?”

“You shot Rosemary!” she blurted.

“Who?”

“Aontas Director, ya-Dad.”

Neil motioned to the others and one by one, they stepped out from their chosen cover. Ray supported Rosemary, who was visibly in severe pain and looked like she was about to lose her barely-maintained composure at any moment.

“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Nesbitt, pulling back from Marido. He took the arrow from his bow, slid it back into his quiver, and moved to help Rosemary. “I'm terribly sorry about that,” he said. “But we thought you were raiders.”

“Well, we're not,” said Marido. “And you're lucky Orla didn't decide to let loose.”

“Why?”

“Erm...it's complicated. Let's just say she's been a bit...trigger-happy as of late. The results have been...messy.” Marido turned as Neil and the others made their way into the courtyard. “Ya-Mum, ya-Dad, I'd like you to meet Neil Perry, Rosemary Collier, and Ray Fean. And you already know Orla, of course.”

A round of handshakes ensued as Marido introduced her parents John and Kathleen, her brother Noel, and sister Frances—who'd emerged moments before--neither of whom looked particularly like Marido, which didn't surprise Neil. Orla and Mairead helped Rosemary into the house while Neil and Ray wheeled everyone's bicycles into the courtyard, unloaded the meager supplies lashed to them, and carried those toward the house.

“I'm glad they're on our side,” said Ray.

“Pardon?” said Neil.

“They're good shots.”

“It was nearly point-blank range, ya-Ray. Besides, you saw what Orla did to that bloke who shot John...O'Brian. I don't think we were in mortal danger...well, not much.”

Ray shuddered. “And I thought she was such a nice girl.”

“She _is_ ,” said Neil. “Though I strongly suspect it's been a very long time since she's been a _girl_.”

Ray raised an eyebrow. “If this whole thing ever blows over...and I have to hope it will...I shall give a very stern talk to whomever tries to bill Orla as a 'shy redhead from Cnoc an Eanaigh.' Shy, my arse.”

Neil chuckled. “I will say this about her...she's the most aggressive harpist I've ever met.” He already knew there was more to Orla than met the eye, but how much more he wasn't sure.

“I really am sorry about that,” said John. “But what with all that's happened...actually, we're not sure just what _did_ happen. It's awfully chaotic, that much is certain.”

“Well, fortunately for you,” said Neil, “we know _exactly_ what's happened.”

“And...?”

“We'll fill you all in later. In the meantime, we might want to get inside. That is, if we're not imposing.”

“No,” said Kathleen, “not at all. It's the least we can do for shooting your friend.”

Neil followed the others as they filed inside. He glanced over his shoulder before stepping off the porch. The sun had dipped below the horizon and a bank of clouds was going to work on the deepening twilight. He chuckled ruefully. He'd already developed the habit of looking over his shoulder. What other habits would he gain over the months...and years...ahead?

He steadied himself against the door frame and kneaded one of his quadriceps. His party had ridden hard all day from the coast where they'd come ashore near Dungarvan. It had been sixty-three miles of agony. He thought he'd been in pretty good physical shape, but their road had shown him otherwise. Damn, but he'd grown soft since he'd hiked the Pacific Crest Trail...had that been only two summers ago? He was pretty sure that the Shifted world was about to hammer and chisel him and his family into submission. Well, he'd welcome it! He sighed, then shut the door behind him.

The Nesbitt home's interior was dark...very dark. The soft glow of candlelight spilled out of a doorway down the hall. Voices, including Rosemary's, spilled out with it. Neil followed and peeked around the doorway. It didn't look too bad from where he stood, though he was pretty sure the older woman was in a substantial amount of pain. Damn, he wished Sophie were there. “Is there...anything I can do?” Neil asked.

“Not really,” said Marido. She stood against one wall while Frances and Ray worked on Rosemary. A bloody arrow lay on a small table while Rosemary herself sat on a chair, tears streaming down her cheeks, silent but for heavy and erratic breathing. Otherwise, the woman seemed to be taking it much better than he himself would have. He was a horrible patient, which Aunt Sophie had declared more times than he could count.

He met Marido's gaze. She was still clearly troubled by John O'Brian's death. So was he, for that matter. The man had taken an arrow to the chest on the way and Neil doubted if even Sophie could have saved him. In accordance with his dying wish, they'd given him a Norse funeral and continued on their way. Some day, maybe they'd be able to fulfill the rest: informing his family.

Neil stepped over and laid a hand on Marido's shoulder. “She'll be alright.” He glanced again at the table holding the arrow. “Target head,” he added, “nice, clean hole.”

“It's...I'm not so worried about her, as I am about...that other thing.”

Neil knew what she meant. She'd been agonizing over how to break the news to her parents about her being an Ingarian. It was something she'd kept a secret, always meaning to say something, but perpetually unsure when or how to broach the subject. She'd known them all her life, of course, but she feared that there may be some things one just couldn't tell about a person. Most of all, she feared they'd take it in entirely the wrong way. She knew her fears were irrational, but she felt them all the same. After all that had happened over the previous two weeks, it was time. She just wished her other three brothers—Sean, Michael, and Karl—were also present. She just hoped they were still alive to be eventually told.

After a half hour of Rosemary's grunts—which might have been screams, if not for the stout stick she held clenched in her jaws—Frances declared the operation a success. It had been fairly straightforward removing the unbarbed arrowhead, which had mercifully struck all soft tissue. Most of the work had been cleaning the in-and-out wound and stitching it closed. All in all, it could have been far worse.

Kathleen shooed everyone else out and into the living room. She fumbled through the darkness for something on the mantle. “Now where did I put those matches? Botheration!”

“What are you trying to light?” Orla asked.

“This oil lamp,” Marido's mum said, tapping on a barely-visible hurricane-type lamp.

Orla stepped over to it, lifted the glass, tapped the wick three times, and said, “Fugh!” A flame promptly sprang to life on the wick. Orla adjusted it, then replaced the glass. “How's that?”

“How...how'd you do that?”

“Magic.”

“Oh, don't tell me you're a witch!”

“I've been getting that a lot lately. But, no, I'm not.”

Kathleen glared at Orla. “I will _not_ have any of that occultish...”

“It's not occultish,” interrupted Orla.

“Then...”

“It's complicated.”

“But you called it...”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know what I called it. It's not my fault English doesn't have the vocabulary to properly describe it.”

Frances and Ray led Rosemary into the room and helped her sit down. A sling supported her left arm. “I'm sorry we don't have much in the way of pain killers,” said Frances.

“I'll live,” grunted Rosemary. “And thank-you.”

“Don't mention it...really”

“So,” said John to Marido, “what brings you all the way back from your tour?”

Marido sighed. “Long story. But I suppose we have time.” She turned to Neil. “Don't we?”

“Why don't you all stay the night?” John suggested.

“That's awfully generous of you,” said Orla.

“Think nothing of it,” said Kathleen. “You're family anyway.” Oh, thought Neil, she had no idea.

“Besides,” said Noel, “it's dangerous to be out and about, after dark or otherwise.”

“Ai,” said Neil, “so we've noticed. We were in Dublin a couple of days ago. They've declared martial law there. It's like that in Wales, too.”

“I don't know about the rest of you,” said Ray, “but that ride killed my legs. I'm not picky.” There were nods of assent.

“Well, then,” said Kathleen, “I suppose I should start supper. We're rationing, so we might not have a lot.”

“Oh,” said Neil, “we'd be happy to contribute.” He stepped over and began to rummage in his pack.

“No worries,” said Orla. She reached over her shoulder and produced a small package. “Would this help?”

“How did you...?” Neil asked.

“Marthwiloros.”

“Thumarthwiloros siarfim?” You have a marthwiloros?

“You mean,” said Marido, “those are real?”

“Thumarthwiloros siarfim we nonsimoyolanen?” said Neil. You have a marthwiloros and you didn't tell us?

“Well, I...” began Orla.

“Um, ya-Neil?” said Marido. “You're doing it again.”

Neil blinked. She was right. He'd drifted into Ingarian...again. His uncle did that frequently and they both supposed it had something to do with being married to and spending so much time among Ingarians. He sighed, then continued in English. “Unbelievable, ya-Orla! Do you have any idea what sort of resource something like that is during something like this?”

“What the devil are you three talking about?” John demanded.

“Orla has a marthwiloros!” said Marido.

“What the hell's a...a...marshwil...whatever?” said Noel.

“Marthwiloros,” corrected Marido.

Neil groaned. He was about to show his nerd again, but it couldn't be helped. “Have any of you have ever watched any anime?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Noel.

“You know how characters can just pull stuff, large objects in particular, out of nowhere?”

“I think it's called 'hammerspace,'” said Noel.

“Precisely.”

“Wait, are you telling us that you actually... _have_ a...a hammerspace?”

“Isn't magic brilliant?!” squealed Orla.

“Would you stop calling it that?” Kathleen protested.

“What would you like me to call it? Like I said, English doesn't have words for it.”

“Well, stop doing it. There's never been...magic...done in this house and...”

“Yes, there has.”

“What?”

“We'll get to that later.”

“Would you two please put a sock in it?” said Neil.

“What the devil's a hammerspace?” Rosemary asked.

“You know how,” said Neil, “in some movies when the actors just happen to have things they need, or when animated characters produce them out of thin air?”

“Yes.”

“It's a wee bit distracting,” said Ray.

“Well,” said Neil, “the real-world explanation is usually that it comes from the production-assistant just off-camera. The nerd explanation is that the character has something like a Bag of Holding, or some pocket or purse that's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, or access to some additional dimension of space.”

“Like Mary Poppins?” Kathleen asked.

“It's a lot like that, yes. Only instead of an object, a hammerspace, or as Igarian magi call it, a marthwiloros, is more of an extension of the person.”

“What else do you have in there?” Noel asked.

“I really don't think...” Kathleen began.

“Well,” said Orla, reaching behind her back, “let's see...” Neil rolled his eyes as Orla began to produce objects out of thin air. Truth be told, while he wasn't sure it was the time or the place for exploring the intricacies of that kind of magic, he was rather curious himself.

Orla pulled out a ball-peen hammer and set it on the table in front of her. 

She glanced at the bread still in her hand and thrust her bundle toward Kathleen, who just looked at it. “It's lemnas bread...more or less.” Kathleen still looked at it. “High-protein, gluten-free, high-calorie, very flavorful, safe for everyone.” Kathleen still didn't budge. “And it won't bite.” The other woman looked like she was trying to say something. “Would you take it if I'd pulled it out of a backpack?” Kathleen nodded. “Think of it as a magical backpack that occupies separate dimensions of space-time.”

“That's brilliant!” said Noel.

“Isn't it?” Orla laughed. Kathleen gingerly took Orla's offered bread, peering suspiciously at it.

“Oh, for goodness sake, ya-Mum,” said Marido, “it's just bread!”

Orla reached behind her again and pulled out a lochaber axe with a large, wicked-looking cutting head, a sharpened spike out the back end, and a sturdy, well-worn, four-foot hardwood haft, and laid that on the table. Over the next several minutes, a small pile of miscellaneous objects from Orla's marthwiloros accumulated on the table: a ball of yarn connected to a partially-finished beanie; three books printed in Ingarian; a potted plant; a box containing three fountain pens and a bottle of ink; a protractor; a small jar of blue paint; three bags of dried fruit; a bag of dried athalas on which Orla had commented to the effect that “that's were that went;” a small ceramic bowl with a matching mug, both glazed in a delicate, opalescent blue-green; a pair of shoes much like the ones most Ingarians wore, with their rounded toes and flat heels, but with flowery and animal designs stamped into the ruddy leather; a personal grooming kit; four large bottles of vinegar; three small melons; a cast-iron frying pan; six throwing knives; three throwing axes; a steel helm; a partially-completed four-in-one riveted chain-maille shirt; three gourds; a recurve bow; a quiver of green-fletched, bodkin-headed arrows; four sweet potatoes; and a first-aid kit.

Rosemary, Ray, and the Nesbitts stared at Orla with their mouths hanging open.

“You had all of that in there?!” said Neil.

“That explains a lot, though,” said Marido. “You somehow always managed to have things like tweezers, spare makeup, q-tips, nail files, and so on at a moment's notice. I'd wondered how you did that.”

Orla smiled, then brought out a huge egg, one that was much longer than her forearm. She held it up to her ear and tapped the shell. After a moment, she sighed and handed it to Kathleen. “It's not viable,” she said. “We can cook it for breakfast.”

She brought out a second egg of similar size, but with brown marbling, and likewise declared it to be breakfast.

She brought out a third egg, one much smaller, and held it up to her ear as well and tapped its shell as before. Then she laid it on the table. “That one's viable.”

“We _really_ need to talk about this,” said Neil. “It counts as a potential logistical tool.”

“So it does.” She brought out a fourth egg, one about the size of a rugby ball, more elliptical than oval, and with a beautiful blue, purple-spotted shell. She repeated the procedure. Her face lit up.

She held it gently in both hands and peered at it. It moved. Before long, it was rocking back and forth in Orla's hands, often so violently that Orla nearly dropped it a couple of times. A small crack appeared on one side of the egg. Orla turned it so that the crack was facing up, then tucked it on her arm as one might a newborn baby. She watched it intently while whatever was inside continued to peck its way out.

Soon, a small head thrust through the shell and looked directly at Orla. She gasped in delight. “Well, hello there!” she cooed. “Lomenish,” welcome. The animal made a soft cooing noise and Orla giggled. She began to pull away bits of shell as the animal shouldered its way out of the egg. Before long, it sat there on the bottom half of its shell, gazing up at Orla and wagging its whip-like tail.

It was the strangest animal Neil had ever seen. It was apparently a quadruped, though for all Neil knew, it had a part-time bipedal posture. It had small claws on its toes and what looked like opposable thumbs on all four feet. Its flexible tail was nearly as long as the rest of its body, which suggested counter-balance. Its head was in proportion with the rest of its sleek physique, with a soft, but slightly beak-shaped snout, a half-inch horn on its nose and the suggestions of two more above its eyes, slightly heavy toothless jaws, and a stiff frill around its neck. Its grey, brick-red-tinged skin was mostly bare, but for a covering of stubble. Overall, it looked to Neil like someone had taken parts of hadrosaur, protoceratops, and velociraptor and melded them all into a single animal. Orla petted its still-slimy head. Then she leaned down and began to lick it.

“Oh, that's disgusting!” declared Kathleen.

“She needs grooming,” said Orla between licks. “It's also how their mothers bond with their offspring. But her egg mother's dead, so I'm it. But you're right...it's disgusting.” Orla kept licking the animal until it was all clean. Everyone stared at her the whole time. It took a good twenty minutes and Neil could tell by the look on Orla's face that she wasn't entirely satisfied with the result. Then she settled the animal on her knee, flipped the wire-bound cork off one of the bottles of vinegar, and took a deep draught.

Kathleen flinched. “I don't know if that's any better,” she said.

“Trust me,” said Orla, “it's better.” She re-closed the bottle. “But I should probably ration this. It's...rare now.” She set the bottle back on the table and returned her attention to the animal sitting on her. “Adorable, isn't she?” said Orla as she scritched under its chin. It seemed to enjoy the attention.

“She is,” said Marido as she reached over and scritched the animal on the head. “She's beautiful! I can't wait to see what she looks like when she's fully grown.”

“Just what _is_ that?” John asked.

“She's a furlit.” She looked into its eyes. “I name you...Alfu. And you're very smart, aren't you?”

“Never heard of it,” said Frances.

“I'm not surprised.”

“She looks like a dinosaur,” said Ray.

“Oh, no, she's repto-mammalian. Aren't you?” She rubbed the animal under its neck and it responded with a sound that seemed like a cross between a purr and a growl, though it appeared to be smiling. It wagged its tail briskly.

Neil sighed. It seemed to him that Orla might have been trying to replace her deceased child—or at least that sort of relationship. He couldn't blame her, of course. His own hadn't even been born yet and he already couldn't imagine anything as heartbreaking as having one's child die.

“Do you know,” said Marido, “what color her foeliri will be?”

“This breed, most likely iridescent black,” said Orla.

“Just...how big will she grow?” Neil asked.

“You saw the size of the egg, ai?”

“Ai.” Neil cocked his head, but Orla just returned his gaze. “Wait...like...dinosaur sized?”

“Don't be ridiculous. You know full well how ambiguous that is. No, she'll be a little larger than a Shetland pony. Different mass distribution, of course, but probably a good three meters long. She'll be absolutely gorgeous once her foeliri fill in.”

“Wait,” said Frances, “what do you mean you're not surprised I've never heard of it?”

“Because furliti aren't indigenous to Earth.”

“What?!” said the Nesbitts, minus Marido, in near-unison.

“They're from Ingary,” said Orla.

“Where's Ingary?” Kathleen.

“It's another planet,” said Ray.

“You mean that,” said John, pointing at Alfu, “is an alien?”

“Yes,” said Orla as she gently rubbed the animal under her little chin. Alfu leaned into it in a curiously feline manner.

“And that doesn't bother you?” John asked, his voice dripping with incredulity and nerves.

“Why should it?” said Orla. She turned to Kathleen. “Ya-Kathleen? Do you have any goat's milk? And a few earthworms. And organ meat. Alfu needs feeding.”

“So do we,” said John.

“We have an alien in our midst,” said Noel, “and all you can think about is dinner?”

“ _How'd_ you get an alien?” Frances asked.

“Maybe,” said Neil, “we should start on that dinner? I think we'd all feel better after eating. And some of us have bicycled more than sixty miles today. I'll explain everything while we eat.” Or, he added to himself, almost everything.

“And some of us have been shot in the shoulder,” added Rosemary.

“All good points,” said Orla, “but Alfu will need a lot of fat and protein if she's to be weaned properly.”

“How do you _know_ that?” asked Noel.

Orla ignored the question, glancing sharply down at the animal in her arms. “Oh, no. Ya-Kathleen, do you have a blanket I could borrow? She's shivering. That'll improve once her foeliri grow out in a few weeks. Normally, her mother would sit on her like birds do, but...you know.”

“I'll get it,” said John with a roll of his eyes.

“And yes,” said Kathleen, “I do have goat milk...and I can arrange some organ meat. You're on your own for worms, though. Try the compost pile out back.” She retreated into the kitchen, pulling Frances after her. The others in Neil's party opened their packs and bustled some of their own provisions to contribute to the cause.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Marido asked excitedly.

Orla stepped over to Marido. “You remember how to observe?” Marido placed her hand on Orla's forehead. “Now, here's what we're going to do...” She began picking up objects one by one and making them vanish into her marthwiloros, still holding a shivering Alfu in a crook in her arm.

Neil crossed the room to stand facing the oil lamp. He pulled a magic mirror out of his pouch and tapped on its frame. After a few moments, his uncle Howell's image appeared in the glass. “Well, Uncle,” said Neil. “We're here.”

“Any problems?”

“Erm...O'Brian took an arrow to the chest on the way. Marido's dad shot Rosemary in the shoulder, but they're taking care of her.”

Howl exhaled. “Has Marido...told them yet?”

“Not yet. Her mum and sister are fixing dinner. Orla contributed some bread from her...Uncle Howell, do you have a marthwiloros?”

Howl raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“That's why I'm asking.”

“But what do you think?”

“I think you don't know what that is and you're trying to cover for it.”

“Damn,” said Howl.

Neil laughed. “Oh, Uncle, you're hilarious! Anyway, Orla's teaching Marido about it.”

“I'd like to evaluate her work when you all return.”

“You mean you'd like her to show you what it is,” Neil corrected.

“Hrmph.”

Neil laughed. “Orla also has a furlit.”

Howl frowned. “Really? What breed?”

“No idea. She says its foeliri will be black, though.”

“What color was the egg?”

“Blue, with purple spots.”

“Huh. I haven't seen one of those since Morgan was a baby. There are rumors of a few on Kupreanaf, but otherwise I thought they'd vanished.”

“Apparently not. She hatched it out of an egg she pulled out of her marthwiloros not twenty minutes ago. Curious creature...kind of cute, though. Anyhow, I'll contact you again in the morning. And don't lose too much sleep over Orla's marthwiloros.”

“I'll be fine.” Howl's image faded and Neil re-stowed the mirror. Neil shook his head. How many more surprises were in store for him and his?

“You have a working smart phone?” asked John from behind Neil.

“Not so much, no,” said Neil. “Phones don't work anymore.”

“Not here, no.”

“Not anywhere.”

“How do you know?”

“My uncle says so. And it's consistent with everything we've seen between here, Dublin, and Wales. We've also been in contact with some people in Argentina who report the same thing.”

“In touch? With a phone that doesn't work?” John was clearly not buying it.

Neil pulled out the mirror and showed it to the elder Nesbitt. “It's a magic mirror.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I realize we've only just demonstrated a little of what we can do and have shared even less of what we know, but you'll have to trust me. These mirrors...” He waved his in the air before returning it to its place. “...are now the best long-range communications devices in the world. They were so even before Earth Shifted, but they're even more so now. I know you don't trust magic, let alone understand it.” Neil returned the mirror to its pouch. “My parents and I went through that several years ago, so I can relate. For now, it's best to just smile, nod, watch, and learn. Trust me, it'll open your eyes to a whole new world of possibilities.”

* * *

Dinner consisted of bread—Orla's loaf and some from the Nesbitt pantry--two chickens, mixed spring greens from the Nesbitt garden, stored root vegetables and fruits from their root cellar, and miscellaneous provisions from Neil's party. While they ate, Neil told the Nesbitts everything about what had happened: Earth being out of phase; its effect on electricity and gas pressure; its global scope; the situations in Wales, Dublin, and the coast; their tentative plans for survival; and the unanswered questions they still had.

Neil also explained the situation with the Ingarians—which both amazed and horrified the Nesbitts--omitting the details about Orla and Marido being Ingarian, leaving them open to share it in their own way. The whole time, Orla fed Alfu goat milk with an eye dropper and small bits of worm and chicken organ meat with a pair of chop-sticks.

John shook his head slowly. “Unbelievable. Magic...aliens...quasi-dinosaurs...the apocalypse. What's next?” Neil resisted the urge to smile. The older man had no idea and Neil was glad he didn't have to be a fly on the wall to see what Marido's family's reaction would be.

“So,” said Kathleen after she and Marido had cleared away the dishes, “what brings you back here in the middle of all...this?”

Marido set her teacup and its saucer on the living room coffee table, which had been cleared when Orla had returned most of its clutter to her marthwiloros. “Ya-Mum...ya-Dad...ya-Noel...ya-Frances.” She scooted over a little and took Kathleen's hand in one of hers and John's in her other. “Partly to let you know that I'm fine and that you don't have to worry about me.” She went on to tell about her ordeal beginning with the bus crash and culminating with her awakening on Neil's dad's yacht.

“Oh, honey!” exclaimed Kathleen. “I am SO sorry!” She stepped over and caught Marido in a tight hug. John, Noel, and Frances joined her.

Marido teared up momentarily.

“You and Jim were...so happy together,” continued Kathleen. “Are you sure you'll be okay?”

Marido wiped her eyes. “I'll...heal,” she said, “eventually.” Once her family had sat down again, she continued.

“And...there's something you all need to know about me...something I should have told you a long time ago.” She took a deep breath, held it, then let it back out. “I...erm...” She sighed, then chuckled. “You know, I didn't think it'd be this hard to say.”

Orla nudged her with an elbow and smiled. Marido smiled back. Still, she stalled.

“Oh, just tell them,” said Orla. “Because if you don't, I will.” She squeezed another dropper of milk into Alfu's eager mouth.

“Tell us what, Mairead dear?” John asked.

“I'm...” Marido stammered, “well, me and Orla...we're...erm...”

Kathleen jerked her hand away and held both of them up to her mouth. “Oh, my God! Are you...?”

Marido nodded. “How'd you know?”

“So,” said John, “does...did...Jim know?”

“Of course.”

John reached over and squeezed Marido's shoulder. “Look, honey, we just want you to know that we'll always love you no matter what.”

Kathleen nodded. “I'd probably be lying if I said I didn't care if you were a lesbian, but...”

“Wh...wh... _WHAT?!_ ” blurted Marido.

“It's...not that?”

“Mum! No! It's nothing like that!”

“Then what is it?” John asked.

Marido exhaled. “I'm...not really your daughter.”

Kathleen and John both blinked in the lamplight. “S...sorry?” said Kathleen.

“In fact, I'm not even Irish. I was switched shortly after birth.”

John shook his head. “No, no, that's...”

“It's true,” said Orla. “You must understand that Mairead was sick... _very_ sick. In point of fact, there was so much wrong with her, she was a hopeless medical case.”

“But,” said Kathleen, “we...we prayed for a miracle...and then you got better.” She directed the last to Marido.

“It depends on your point of view,” said Orla. “I arranged for myself to be that miracle.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Kathleen.

“There are some things you don't know surrounding your daughter's first weeks, things I've kept from you until now....”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains both infant death and death in childbirth. Both are rather traumatic experiences to those who've lived through such incidents in real life. My intent is to treat both with the dignity and weight they deserve, while not unduly "springing it on" readers who might not have sufficiently healed from their own experiences with such.

Nenagh, Ireland  
April 25, 1979

Orla Fallon walked briskly into the lobby of Mid-Western Regional Hospital. A woman on a mission, she had a lot on her mind. Leading two lives on two worlds and working on fabricating a third left her spread a little thin mentally. But she'd anticipated that.

What she hadn't anticipated was some of the heartache involved. Her throat tightened slightly as she stepped up to the receptionist. Orla centered herself with the long-practiced discipline of nearly half an Earth century of training.

“Hello,” said Orla disarmingly.

“May I help you?” asked the receptionist in the usual dead-pan tone Orla would have expected from, say, a Vulcan.

“I do hope so. I'm here to see a Kathleen Nesbitt...and her newborn daughter.”

A flicker of recognition flashed over the other woman's face and Orla thought she caught a faint hint of sadness. That did not bode well. Her friend had given birth to a baby girl at her home in Loughmoe less than a week before. Unfortunately, the child had not been born healthy. Although she'd been carried fully to term, the baby had almost immediately begun to have problems including, but not limited to, heart palpitations, trouble breathing and swallowing, strange rashes, and brief but frequent seizures. The baby's father John had rushed both mother and child to the nearest medical facility that could possibly deal with that sort of thing.

Orla had been off-world at the time and had only just heard the telephone message left on the answering machine at her Irish home in Cnoc an Eanaigh. As the baby's godmother, she was supposed to have been present for the birth, but had been delayed due to some highly annoying legal nonsense in High Norland City. While John had done his best to sound calm, the alarm had been clearly discernible in his voice. Therefore, Orla had dangerously exceeded the speed limit. She had, of course, used magic to mollify the risk to some extent.

The receptionist flipped through some papers. “Ah...yes.” She cleared her throat. “Natal ward is on the top floor. Take a right at the top of the main stairs, second set of doors on the left.”

“Thank-you.” Orla spun on the ball of one foot, skirts briefly twirling about her, and strode aggressively toward the stairs. Hiking up her skirts, she took the steps two at a time, thankful she hadn't paused to change into the Irish-made shoes that always made her feet hurt.

She paused outside the doors labeled “Neo Natal” and centered herself. Ground and center, ground and center. She felt her heart rate and breathing slow to nearly normal before entering. It wouldn't do to appear even slightly alarmed, though she certainly was.

The sound of a baby's cry greeted her. For one of three hospitals in County Tipperary, there were seemingly few occupied baby beds, maybe half of the dozen or so. Two incubators held babies, one of which had a captive audience.

Orla made her way over to John and Kathleen. Orla could see the terror written all over their faces from the moment they looked up. “How is she?” Orla asked, willing her voice to remain calm.

“Oh, Orlagh,” cried Kathleen, using Orla's Irish name. She gave Orla a one-armed hug, her other hand holding her little daughter's fingers.

Orla returned the hug with both arms. “So what's wrong with her?” she asked after a few moments.

“What's _not_ wrong with her?” said John, his voice tense. He was obviously fighting hard to hold back the tears that would, if he were to give them half a chance, wet the floor at his feet.

Orla took the baby's medical chart from its place on the end of the incubator and flipped through it. She could barely read the bloody thing. What was it with doctors? It didn't seem to matter on which world they worked, there seemed to be some universal constant compelling physicians to write illegibly. She was very close to proposing a new law in High Norland requiring anyone in the medical professions to write in the old runic script. That wouldn't be a bad idea in Ireland, either, and The One knew there were enough leftover Norse rune stones scattered about the Emerald Isle that everyone should already be passingly familiar with them anyway.

Much of what was on the chart went over Orla's head. But she understood enough to know that the prognosis was quite grim. Most of the same sorts of ailments afflicted her kind as well as humans. The symptoms weren't always the same and the treatments differed, but there was an awful lot of overlap. “Oh, dear,” she said. She hung the clipboard back on its hook, stepped around to the other side of the incubator and placed a hand on the baby's forehead. Through all the tubes, wires, and the tape holding them to the baby, Orla had a hard time finding enough exposed skin to accommodate her palm.

“Hmmm,” she said after a few moments. She knew just enough medical magic to identify the ways in which a person's life force related to their physical condition. The little girl's energy fluctuated wildly and in ways that Orla had only ever felt in those undergoing the early stages of catastrophic, cascading systems failure. The girl clearly didn't have long to live.

She was at a crossroads. There might have been other facilities elsewhere in Ireland advanced enough to treat little Mairead. Yet Orla had seen the note on the medical chart stating that the patient was too unstable to move. Orla knew a few Ingarian physicians who might be able to help, but she highly doubted any of them knew enough about human physiology to do much other than simply make the baby comfortable. Even Orla could do that. And taking her to Ingary would require moving her. But she also knew that the Nesbitts would be quite reluctant to allow Orla or anyone else use magic on their daughter.

Orla did it anyway. With her hand still on Mairead's tiny forehead, she surreptitiously laid a mild suppression spell on the baby. It wasn't much—far less than a full stasis spell. Such a spell would have placed the child in a state of suspended animation, but Orla knew full well it would have been highly obvious and completely misinterpreted. Furthermore, Orla didn't know the technique well enough. Placing one's fresh meats and vegetables in stasis on the way home from market was one thing. Stasis spells were also the only way inland residents ever had access to seafood, barring a trip to the coast. In fact, most Ingarian “refrigerators” were actually stasis boxes.

Placing a stasis spell on a living person, however, was something else entirely. It was tricky and not widely known. Few magi knew how to do it and most who did worked as medical professionals. The few who weren't in the medical field had retired from it to teach magic. Still, the suppression might just be enough to retard the child's deterioration and buy her a little more time. For what, Orla wasn't sure. For now, though, the progression of Mairead's compound maladies was slowed.

Orla stole a glance at the several monitors that displayed various vital functions. Each showed a slight steadying of its readings. She wasn't sure Kathleen noticed. The new mother was too focused on her baby. Orla wasn't sure anyone without medical training would notice either, unless they were looking for it. But she knew better. She shoved the threatening tears back. She'd mourn the child later.

“Orlagh?” said John. “May I...have a word?”

“Of course,” said Orla.

John led her out of the room and out into the hall. “She's...she's dying,” he said, “isn't she?”

Orla resisted the urge to glance back into the nursery and held John's gaze instead. “What makes you say that?”

John cocked his head in the way Kathleen always described as his “don't bullshit me” expression. “Haven't you noticed? The way the doctors and nurses look at her...and us. I can see it in their eyes. All we have is hope and even that's slipping through our fingers. Just like...” He shoved back the tears. “...like our little girl. I'm trying to be strong for my wife, but...”

“Ya-John?” said Orla. “Why are you talking to me about this?” John seemed hurt. “I...I'm sorry. I know I'm Mairead's godmother, but...”

“You won't be for much longer.”

Orla laid a hand on John's shoulder. “There is always hope.”

“Look...go on home. We'll...call you later. You have things to do anyway, don't you?”

Orla nodded, then made her way back to the hospital's parking lot.

As she pulled out of the drive, her thoughts turned to her next item of business. John had been right. She _did_ have things to do, but she was quite certain he had no idea those things had nothing to do with her musical career.

In fact, she'd soon be dealing with another baby. Why, oh, why, had she agreed to be godmother to two babies at the same time? It would have been one thing had both families known each other and even better had those families been mutual friends. But neither knew the other even existed. The situation with little Mairead would resolve itself and while that would uncomplicate Orla's life, the circumstances were about as far from ideal as they could possibly be.

* * *

High Norland City, Kingdom of High Norland, Ingary, Lirosh System  
23 Sheram, 22 King Adolphus X, 1238 Fourth Age

Melano Arghim flicked the last stroke of her signature across the piece of parchment that lay on the table in front of her. She paused, then cleaned her quill pen and pressed her thumb-print onto the page next to her name. After re-corking the ink bottle, she rose slowly to her feet and re-read her message.

Yes, all was in order. She didn't think she'd have time to have what amounted to her last will and testament notarized, but she had a little more on her mind. She stroked the curve of her pregnant belly.

She had a very bad feeling about the whole thing. The birth of a child was supposed to be a joyous event. But ever since her husband had been killed a few months before in a rather nasty accident involving the magic outwash from an airship engine, she'd felt a certain unidentifiable something pressing upon her mind.

At first, she'd just believed it to be part of the pain and grief that always accompanied the death of a loved one. But as she'd worked through her mourning and grieving, and as her pregnancy had progressed, the unsettled feeling remained. Her friend Orla Fallon had tried to reassure her multiple times that it was just nerves associated with carrying a first child so late in life and with the inherent dangers of birthing in general. That was how she'd justified writing out a will, ostensibly as a precaution. But Melano somehow sensed there was more than that and she just couldn't put her toe on it.

She sighed. She wished Orla would return soon. Melano and her husband Loran had made her their unborn child's godmother. Part of that entailed assisting with the birth. But when Loran had died, Orla had rented out her own house and had moved in with Melano to help with things. The two women had known each other since they'd been girls and they'd been like sisters to each other ever since. So her presence had been reassuring.

Melano took her teacup and carried it gingerly across the room, her bare feet barely making a sound against the polished hardwood floor. She stood before the expansive windows that occupied the entire northeastern wall of her house, basking in the warm sunlight that flooded the main living area.

She sipped at her herbal tea and kneaded the small of her back as she gazed out at the view, which was really quite breathtaking. Sometimes she came close to taking it for granted.

Her house stood atop a small hillock a good half-hour's brisk walk outside the walls of High Norland City. A modest, but strong, stone-and-timber palisade had been sunk deep into the earth about a dozen paces above the hill's base. Between the house and the wall lay four generations of landscaping, some of it ornamental, some of it edible, some of it herbal and medicinal. That included the small vineyard Melano's great-great-great grandfather had planted shortly after building the wall and the trellises supporting the lurghan vines her great-great grandfather had planted. Several score bottles of the mixed vinegars her grandfather had made from those fruits still sat down in the cellar.

Beyond the palisade, an expanse of meadow, its tall grasses studded with the seed-heads of dozens of kinds of grassland flowers, stretched nearly as far as the small tributary stream that fed the West Fork of the River Norland. Riparian vegetation, its outer branches adorned with fall fruits and berries, some of which were edible and yielded fine wild vinegars, obscured most of its waters. A small stretch of stream bank was kept clear to allow fishing access and Melano could just see the small stone bench she'd helped her father build when she'd been a girl.

Another field lay between the stream and High Norland City. Dispensation from the Crown allowed local ranchers to use it as pasture for their animals free of charge. The idea was to keep a wide swath clear of any vegetation that could hide an enemy. It was something that was leftover from centuries before when such things had been tactically necessary, but had eventually become more of an economic and aesthetic arrangement.

Sturdy livestock chewed the woody bushes growing alongside the moat next to the wall while other types munched some of the courser, fibrous weeds near the verge of the main road leading southward from the nearest gate and scores of others grazed the softer grasses in between. Several herders sat their mounts, keeping watch. It wouldn't do for their herds to impede traffic on the road, or to wander off into the nearby forest, or through the gates and into the city. Under High Norland Law, failure to supervise one's stock was punishable by a stiff fine, revocation of grazing rights, or both.

The wall of High Norland City, its foundations set far below grade, rose abruptly from the fields. It canted backward slightly from the base, its outer surface forming a gentle curve that matched the wide ribbon of the river a little further to the east.

That curve was designed partly to make it difficult for attackers to approach the wall and partly to shed floodwaters. Historically, the River Norland had been prone to seasonal and other intermittent flooding, mostly from the East Fork, its waters sheeting across the high plains, then backing up against the low rocky hills rimming the downstream side and funneling through a notch between them before plunging over the high cliffs and into the ocean.

Afternoon sunlight glinted off the golden domes capping most of the buildings of the Old City, those of the Royal Palace rising a little above the others. There'd been a law at one time prohibiting any structure from being built taller than the Palace. That had changed two reigns before when King Adolphus VIII had recognized the restrictions imposed upon the city by the very walls that had protected it for centuries. He'd foreseen certain problems and had rescinded the building height law. Several scaffold-shrouded buildings joined three airship towers as they reached toward the sky in testament to the city's forward-thinking leadership.

Melano sighed, and let a tear well up to flow down her cheek. The memories she had of things she'd done with her father were many. She'd been looking forward to her own child making his or her own memories with Loran—building garden projects, fishing, air-boating off of the Norland Fall, and so on—memories that would never be.

The two of them had been actively trying for more than twenty years to have a child. The day Melano had discovered she was with child had been the second-happiest day of Loran's life, right after their wedding day. He'd been so looking forward to being a father.

Melano let another wave of grief sweep through her. After she'd calmed, she gingerly set her tea, hands shaking slightly, on the nearby table and blew her nose into the handkerchief she kept in a skirt pocket for such incidents. Her child would eventually need a father figure, which meant Melano would have to re-marry at some point. Matchmaking was another duty that was wrapped up in Orla's role as godmother, though that was usually something done for the child and not the parent.

A sudden, violent abdominal spasm took Melano's breath away, wrenching her attention abruptly inward. Her muscles steadily tightened, squeezing the life inside her as one might a juicing fruit. She braced a hand against a nearby beam and focused on her breathing. Another muscular lurch brought the expected crunching feeling. The contraction was so violent, the crunch was nearly audible through the layers of uterus and muscle. It was a good thing the unborn were so flexible.

But something about it didn't feel right. First-time motherhood was always fraught with uncertainty, but all the conversations she'd had with other mothers, as well as her own physician, suggested there should have been a lot more crunching. That likely meant only one thing: that there had been insufficient softening of the rigid casing surrounding the baby. That, in turn, greatly increased the risk of severed blood vessels. She really should get herself to a hospital.

Another spasm brought her to her knees. A third dropped her to the floor. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, tears flowing down her cheeks. A fourth contraction sent a sharp pain through her insides and a fifth left both legs tingling in a most unpleasant way. A wash of fluids gushed out of her, wetting her skirts, and flowing out onto the floor. She'd expected delivery to be awkward, uncomfortable, messy, and maybe a little painful, but not nearly to that extent. Something was definitely wrong. She prayed for her baby.

* * *

Orla Fallon stepped through the doorway into the the Arghim home where she lived with her friend Melano. She was glad to have pinned her hair up into a bun, though not so glad about why. Life had been full of sorrow and recent developments with the Nesbitt situation weren't helping. “Ya-Melano? Miarathisen.” I've returned. A slight motion in her peripheral vision caught her eye. She looked toward the living area and froze.

She felt her arm go limp and heard her satchel fall to the floor. She wrenched herself out of her shock and sprinted across the room, dropping to her knees almost before she'd stopped.

“Ya-Melano!” Orla nearly shrieked the name.

Melano's eyelids fluttered open, the violet-blue-rimmed pupils locking with Orla's own sapphire blue. They were filled with pain and fear. She gestured feebly toward her nethers. Orla followed her gaze and gasped.

Orla braced her hands against the floor, lifted her weight, and scooted over, ignoring the wetness from the spilled fluids soaking into the floor and now into the fabric of her skirts. She pulled the small knife she wore at her waist and cut Melano's skirts, careful not to disturb whatever they hid, then pulled the fabric aside. She winced at the not altogether unexpected sight.

The typical mess accompanying a birthing was, all things considered, rather colorful. Orla wasn't surprised at the sorts of traditions, stories, myths, and so on that had grown up around it over the ages. What met Orla's gaze was, however, nothing short of horrific. For starters, there was far too much blood. That rich lilac-burgundy liquid mixed with the yellowish and grass-green amniotic and sky-blue casing fluids through which showed the ruddy bits of casing. Orla poked at a piece of the latter, which she judged to be much too large and far too hard. It wouldn't have required much medical training to know that there had been insufficient softening of the casing material and that one or more of the pieces had severed at least one artery during the birthing.

More movement and a soft gurgling sound grabbed Orla's attention like a vise. The baby! She quickly clawed the birthing mess aside and gently lifted Melano's child out of the slowly coagulating fluids and cleared the infant's airways. Lacking a towel, she used her own skirts to gently dry off the baby, scooting back toward Melano's head as she did so, smearing a little of the blood and fluids across the floor as she went.

“Il shanlal,” it's a girl, said Orla as she held the baby out to her mother.

Melano smiled weakly and Orla saw a glimmer of joy rise up through the pain, fear, and sorrow on her friend's face. Orla helped Melano lift her arms to hold her daughter, then cut the blouse away from her chest so that nothing would be between mother and daughter. The baby cooed lightly as she lay between Melano's breasts, though neither had the strength to lift her own head.

“Marido,” said Melano softly, “Marido misiliwin.” I name you Marido. She gently stroked Marido's fine, blonde hair.

“Taalainar,” she's beautiful, said Orla.

“Misikaruth, ya-Marido,” I love you, Marido, Melano whispered. “Foorima elere asmait we asalain.” Grow up to be strong and beautiful. “Kan miheralunem misiblepual.” I will see you when I wake.

Melano's chest fell once more...and came to rest. Orla reached up and closed her friend's tear-stained eyes for the final time. Then she leaned back, lifted her face toward the ceiling, and howled in grief. The baby must have sensed it too, for she lent her own high-pitched wails to Orla's.

When Orla next opened her eyes, the sun's angle had grown shallow. The amber light of early evening threw everything into shadow. The room felt eerily still, save for the squirming baby trying to suckle at her mother's breast. It broke Orla's heart, but she shoved her emotions back. There would be time later for proper grieving.

Orla carefully scooped up little Marido, peeled back her blouse, and let the child nurse. Orla was glad she'd been a mother already, though that hadn't ended well. She was even more glad she'd been drinking the herbal teas to stimulate lactation, for back-up nursemaid was yet another role as godmother. As the baby fed, Orla searched for something to use as swaddling. She finally located the packages that had been deposited in a closet, packages that had been gifts from family and friends.

Orla sniffled, but allowed no further upwelling as she opened one parcel after another until she found a small stack of cloth nappies and a hand-sewn blanket. Returning to the living area, she teased the baby away long enough to secure a nappy around her and wrap her in the blanket before returning her to spot. But she'd apparently had enough and instead gazed at Orla with her olive-tinted sea-blue eyes.

Orla gathered up all the afterbirthing and set it to simmering on the stove. Newborn bones were mostly cartilage and a healthy dose of calcium, magnesium, and strontium was necessary to start healthy bone development. A little extra zirconium, arsenic, and boron wouldn't hurt, either. All of that and more were concentrated in the afterbirth.

The effluents were to simmer until the mixture resembled a thin porridge. Traditionally, everyone present at the birthing would partake in a small quantity of the resulting thick beverage. Then the mother and child would consume the remainder over several days.

Orla sighed. She lay the baby on the counter, then allowed herself to weep while the pot simmered. The sun had set by the time the mixture was ready. Orla stirred it, breaking up the remaining chunks until those, too, dissolved, allowing a few tears to fall into the pot, thus adding just a bit of her spirit.

While the whole thing cooled to just above room temperature, Orla walked over to Melano's body and placed a stasis spell on it. It wouldn't be permanent, but should last until proper funeral rites could be observed. Orla knew full well what sorts of things happened to dead bodies.

Returning to the kitchen, she saw the parchment Melano had left. Orla didn't know why she hadn't noticed it earlier. After all, she'd nearly lain Marido right on top of it. She picked it up and read. When she'd finished, she gently returned it to the counter and wiped fresh tears from her eyes.

The words were what passed for Melano's last will and testament, down to the legal language, which comprised half the text. Orla wasn't sure if it would be considered legally binding, but she knew someone who knew someone who...well, she had her connections.

The salient points were that Melano had left everything to her child, to be held in trust by Orla until that child came of age. She also named the baby—Marido if a girl, Luthin if a boy. She'd apparently anticipated either her demise, or at least a protracted convalescence. She wanted Orla to tell the baby all the stories she knew about...her...parents, so that she'd get to know them vicariously as they'd been in life. She also instructed Orla to find a family for the baby, which effectively circumvented the usual stint in an orphanage typically prescribed by law.

That last bit gave Orla pause. She'd been fully prepared to take on temporary parenting duties for little Marido. But unless she herself were to re-marry, and she certainly hadn't ruled out that possibility, doing so would leave the baby without a father figure. Orla glanced again at the baby and froze as a sudden flash of inspiration swept through her mind.

Orla cocked her head and peered at Marido. The girl was, in many ways, remarkably similar to little Mairead Nesbitt. Their hair and eyes were very nearly the same color, their faces were about the same shape. There were a few obvious differences that Orla would have to camouflage using the same magic she employed to camouflage herself whenever she was in Ireland.

It just might work. The Nesbitts were already desperately praying for some miracle, so convincing them that one had taken place shouldn't be too difficult. Furthermore, they had no idea whatsoever that what Orla had in mind was even possible. In fact, Orla was quite sure that her plan was so far outside the realm of human experience, it would never enter their minds at all.

It was highly risky, though, and Orla would have to all but hover over Marido, possibly to the point of making a nuisance of herself. But there'd been far too much heartache for one week. Mairead was going to die, but maybe Orla could let the Nesbitts believe otherwise. Orla had been through that sort of trauma herself and if she hurried, she just might be able to spare the Nesbitts, at least for a few years, until they were ready for the truth.

A sudden realization yanked Orla out of her reverie. Nigh Norland law required a person to immediately notify authorities upon the discovery of a dead body. She strode over to the magic mirror on the wall, hoping that the few hours that had already elapsed since Melano's death wouldn't pose any legal problems. She certainly didn't need any of that if her plan involving the Nesbitts was to succeed.

She tapped the mirror's frame in the pattern roughly analogous to the United States' 911. When the respondent's face appeared in the glass, Orla tearfully explained what had happened.

An hour later, Orla watched the three-person response team carry Melano's shrouded body out the front door. Her official statement taken and a copy of Melano's impromptu will handed to Orla's contact, she returned her attention to the baby.

She pulled a small, sturdy basket out of a closet and padded it with a blanket. Then she packaged most of the afterbirth porridge into glass jars while feeding as much of it to Marido as she would eat. Personally, she found it to be barely palatable, even with the added herbs, but a baby's instincts for its needs were strong enough. After that, she fetched a package of dried athalas and a small packet of seed. When she was satisfied, she bundled the baby, kissed her on the forehead, shoved everything into her marthwiloros, turned the doorknob to green, and rushed out.

* * *

Nenagh, Ireland  
April 26, 1979

Orla Fallon walked into the neonatal unit of Mid-Western Regional Hospital. As she'd expected, the Nesbitts huddled next to the incubator that, along with several units of peripheral apparatus, kept their baby girl alive. She glanced at the monitors as she approached.

“How's she doing?” Orla asked as she stepped up behind them. She was sure she already knew the answer.

Both John and Kathleen turned their tear-streaked faces toward Orla. “Oh, Orlagh,” choked Kathleen. She threw her arms around Orla's neck. Orla gave her friend what she hoped would be a comforting hug. She caught John's gaze and saw the grim sorrow in them. Clearly he'd been bracing himself. “She's dying,” sobbed Kathleen. “And there's nothing we can do!”

Orla pulled back slightly. “There's always hope,” she said.

“But...”

“When was the last time either of you slept?”

“Well, I...” began John.

“Go get some sleep,” said Orla. “I'll keep watch here. If anything changes, I'll summon you.”

John furrowed his brow.

“Oh, no,” said Kathleen, “we couldn't possibly...”

“Oh, yes you could,” said Orla. “In fact, I insist.” She'd have to make them comply somehow. Otherwise her plan would never work. Mairead would die right in front of them and that would tear their hearts apart. That wasn't an option. “Besides,” she added, “you can't make good decisions if you're sleep deprived. And that's precisely what your daughter needs. And you know I've promised to take care of her. Now go.”

Kathleen tentatively let go of Mairead's little hand and stood up. John led her toward the door, then paused. “We really should be here for her last moments, you know,” he said over his shoulder. He tried to remain calm, but Orla could tell he was just as torn up about it as was his wife.

“If I have anything to say about it,” said Orla, “it'll rather be the other way 'round. Now go.”

The Nesbitts slowly made their way out of the room. Orla sighed. Now she'd have to make sure she had enough time alone. That meant she'd have to just sit with the baby for a while, await the wee-hour shift change, and hope no one arrived for delivery in the meantime.

Orla sat and took the little baby's hand. The girl felt even weaker than before. She judged that John and Kathleen were right. Little Mairead was indeed dying. In fact, she wouldn't live to see the dawn. It was quite sad, really. No parent should have to bury their child...ever. Fortunately, Orla could spare the Nesbitts of having to bury the one in front of her. She'd do that herself.

As soon as she was alone, she pulled a stiff wicker basket out of her marthwiloros and gazed at baby Marido asleep inside it. She'd have to work quickly. She carefully lifted Marido out of the basket and placed her in the incubator next to Mariread.

Next was the tricky part. She'd have to move the monitoring wires from Mairead to Marido without setting off the defibrillation alarms. Then she'd have to adjust the readings to make them appear what would be normal for an Irish baby.

Orla looked back and forth between babies. The contrast was staggering, Mairead laying still and nearly comatose while Marido wiggled and smiled. Once Orla wove the spell around Marido to make her appear Irish, the girl's resemblance to the Nesbitt baby was uncanny.

Then she gathered into one hand all the tubes and wires connected to Mairead and pushed with her mind. She watched as the monitor activity quickly slowed down and then froze in place as though time had stopped for them. In reality, she'd dumped anti-leptons into the system. The effect would last only as long as she held the wires, so she'd have to move quickly.

With her other hand, she stripped everything off of Mairead and placed the baby under heavy magical sedation. It wasn't really stasis, which was just as well, as Orla still didn't know how to do that to a living being, and that could have easily killed the baby. While the child was essentially dead already, Orla wasn't ready to deal with that just yet, nor was she willing for that to happen by her own hand.

Then she attached all the leads to Marido and released them, letting all the tubes dangle. There was no way she'd risk letting whatever was dribbling down them enter Marido's bloodstream. While Orla suspected that one of the clear plastic bags feeding those tubes held little more than ordinary saline, she didn't know what other medications were mixed into the other two and any of them could very well kill the child. Moreover, shoving a breathing tube down the throat of a perfectly healthy baby with a perfectly good set of lungs would simply have been cruel.

She watched the monitors return to life, their readings dramatically differing from what they were before. She glanced down at the babies, Mairead still immobile and Marido still wriggling, though not quite as much. She placed Mairead into the basket, which she shoved back into her marthwiloros.

Orla glanced around the room. Nothing had changed. The few babies still lay asleep and no one else had returned. The whole thing had only taken a few minutes. She was confident no one would know what she'd done for a good long while. Orla sat down and held little Marido's tiny hand and sang softly to her:

“Esharis we kefiar blepu  
“Migldi magldi, he no no  
“Thura asufal anongo  
“Migldi magldi, he no no....”

Orla glanced toward the entry to the neonatal ward where morning sunlight streamed through the windows and onto the floor, then back to the baby. Orla surreptitiously fed her another spoon full of the afterbirth broth she'd prepared earlier. The little girl ate it greedily. Something else had occurred to her during the night. Would Marido be able to breast-feed from Kathleen? It had never been done before. She herself could drink milk from just about anything that wasn't bovine, so the risk was probably quite low.

Rapid footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Orla looked up again, then back to the baby. “Dorang, ya-Marido,” sorry, she said to the baby, “lem thutilais mithar purshul,” but I must put your food away. Orla quickly screwed the lid back on the jar and stowed that and the wooden spoon she'd been using back into her marthwiloros. “Lem thupio sikal arfim dean,” but you may have more later, she whispered to Marido before kissing her on the forehead.

Movement at the entrance became John and Kathleen Nesbitt as they rushed frantically into the room, heedless of the nurse imploring them to calm down. Both skidded to a halt as Orla looked up and smiled. She watched as their nervously expectant faces broke apart into huge grins as their eyes came to rest on the wriggly, smiling baby in front of them. Tears welled up in both their eyes, but tears of joy.

Kathleen reached down to pick up the baby, despite protests from the nurse now standing on the other side of the incubator, held her close and kissed her over and over. The wires still attached to Marido's skin made the whole thing a bit awkward, but neither John nor Kathleen seemed to particularly notice.

“It's a miracle,” said John through his own tears.

Orla just stood there and smiled. She knew otherwise, of course. Or perhaps she herself had become a miracle. Those were poorly understood anyhow, so why not?

The supervising physician gave the baby a clean bill of health, despite strong recommendations that the baby remain for another day or two for observation. But both the Nesbitts and Orla were quite adamant that it wasn't necessary. So both mother and child were released.

Once outside, Orla led her friends to her car where she opened the boot. “Now,” she said, “this is very, very important. You must follow all my instructions to the letter if the baby is to live, let alone grow up to be healthy.” She thought she heard John gulp as she reached inside and lifted a small cardboard box in which she'd carefully packed the jars of afterbirth broth. She handed the whole thing to John, who peered suspiciously at the ruddy-grey contents. “You must give her several spoonfuls of this to her every time she eats. It must be heated to precisely body temperature, but slowly, as though heating milk.”

“What...” began John.

“Please don't interrupt,” said Orla sternly. She hefted a small bag containing the athalas and plopped it atop the box. “You must also brew for her an infusion made with this herb at least once each week. When she's old enough, give her whole leaves to chew. It's called athalas. And no, it's not like the one from 'Lord of the Rings.' You must grow more and keep a supply of it at all times. Seeds are in the bag.

“You must also not let her eat anything with lactose or gluten. And never, _ever_ , give her anything with alcohol in it...not even cough syrup. Also, whatever you do, if you have any medical concerns at all, please, please, _please_ , call me first, even before ambulance. I do realize this is all highly irregular, but it is vitally important that I be regarded as her pediatrician. Please do not ask why. It's...complicated, but you _must_ , on my life and hers, trust me on this.”

John and Kathleen looked at each other and then back at Orla. She could see the fear in their eyes and hoped that fear would be enough to motivate them to follow her instructions, even if they didn't make sense to them.

“Erm,” said John, “okay, but...should we get a second opinion?”

“Absolutely not,” said Orla. “Let me ask you this...is it worth risking the child's life?”

Orla watched both John's and Kathleen's eyes grow wide and they visibly choked back some tears. John shook his head wordlessly.

Orla laid a hand on both their shoulders. “It will be alright,” she assured them. “You'll see.”

The three exchanged embraces and Orla gave the baby another kiss on the head before parting ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to the real-world Welsh nursery rhyme "Midlgli Magldi" is intentional. Deciding that it's actually an Ingarian song, I translated the first verse into Ingarian. It's one of my favorites and while I haven't yet found much solid information on its dating, I strongly suspect it, like "Scarborough Faire," goes clear back to the Middle Ages. The tune can get stuck in one's head. Here's an example:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PviQltyZpqE as sung by Cerys Matthews. The song in its entirety, which has several verses and multiple versions, is actually much longer and I'm particularly fond of the duet she sings on her album "Tir."
> 
> The Welsh techno group DJ SG also does a rather catchy arrangement.


	4. Chapter 4

Loughmoe, Ireland  
March 29, CY 1, 2012 AD

Kathleen raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

“You're...you're lying,” said John.

“No, ya-Dad,” said Marido, shaking her head slightly, “she's not.”

“Then that would mean you're...no, no, no. That's...that's impossible.”

“It's true. I'm an alien. And you adopted me. You just didn't know it.”

Marido's family blinked and exchanged looks with each other. Neil could almost see their mental gears grinding behind their eyes. One by one, they connected the dots.

“Where is she?” said John, upwelling tears choking his voice. “Where's our birth daughter?”

“I took a scion of Ingarian iron-wood,” said Orla, “and when I buried Mairead, I drove it into her heart. The tree took root and gave her a second life of sorts. It's been growing out behind your home ever since.”

“What?!” said Noel.

“Your sister...your blood sister,” said Orla, “is buried in your back yard. I'm very sorry I didn't say anything sooner, but it was _very_ important for you to raise Marido as your own flesh and blood.”

“But all those health issues,” said John, “the food intolerances, the allergies, the other...erm...weirdnesses...Orla, you said our daughter...our new daughter...was strong and healthy.”

“Oh, she was,” said Orla, “and still is.”

“Mairead...” said Noel.

“It's Marido,” corrected Marido.

“Okay...Marido...remember all those times when we were children and I called you an alien?”

“Vividly,” said Marido flatly.

“And remember when I finally apologized?”

“Yes. I was fifteen. And I forgave you.”

“You did. But for the record...I _knew_ it!” he said triumphantly.

Marido rolled her eyes. “Ya-Noel, it was never about you calling me an alien.”

“It wasn't?”

“Of course not. Because I _am_ an alien. But it had _everything_ to do with you being mean-spirited about it. You do realize that, don't you?”

Noel considered that for a moment. “I...hadn't thought about it like that. I just recall one day suddenly feeling awful for making you cry all the time and I realized I was hurting you. I'm...still sorry.” He walked over and hugged Marido. She hugged him back.

Then Noel pulled back and grinned. “And I still love you...even if you turn out to be wearing a rubber mask like in 'V.' But my sister's an alien! That's just brilliant!”

“Well, I'm glad you feel that way, ya-Noel. Really, I am.”

“I suppose that might explain a few things,” said Frances.

“Oh, it explains a _lot_ of things.”

“Like what?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“I'm still not sure I believe you. I mean, you don't _look_ much like an alien. Well...your eyes look too big, but...”

“They're supposed to be like that. Our eyeballs are twenty-five percent larger than yours. And...” Marido tipped her head back, opened her mouth, and pointed at her upper teeth.

“Fangs?” said Frances. “You have _fangs_?!”

Marido crossed her arms defiantly. “Half a centimeter longer does _not_ constitute fangs, thanks.” She stood up and began to unfasten the light coat she still wore.

“What are you doing?” asked John.

“Showing you all something else. And no, ya-Noel, we're not reptilian.” Marido shrugged her coat off her shoulders and tossed it onto the back of the chair where she'd been sitting. Then she held up her elbow. “See?”

Her adopted family leaned in to peer at the two-inch-long bone glinting dully in the firelight. “Just what,” said Kathleen, “is that?”

“We call it a lenom. It's more or less an external extension of the ulna. There's a growth plate right about here.” She touched a point between the fleshy tissue surrounding the protrusion's base and the elbow's pivot point. “This will continue to grow throughout my life. Men's lenomos grow faster and will generally be at least three times as long. They're often used as weapons.”

“May I...touch it?” Noel asked.

“Um...sure,” Marido said with a shrug. Noel did, briefly flinched, then touched it again.

“Feels kind of like horn.”

Marido shrugged again. “What were you expecting?”

“Not sure.”

Marido sat there while her family fingered her lenomae. Moments stretched into minutes. “Um,” she said finally, her voice tinged with indulgence verging on impatience, “are you all finished yet? Because there's more.”

“As in,” said Noel, “you really _do_ have lizard skin under a facade of humanoid skin?”

Marido rolled her eyes. “Ya-Noel, I just told you, we're _not_ reptiles!” She bent over, undid the fastenings on one of her shoes, pulled it off, and presented her foot. Her equally-sized toes were clearly visible in their bisymmetrical fan arrangement and the arch of her foot was in its center, rather than to one side as in humans. She wiggled her toes and turned her foot sideways to show her sixth toe, the one attached at the base of her calf and that humans erroneously called a dewclaw. “See?” she said again.

Noel gave a low whistle.

“No wonder you always complained about your shoes,” said Kathleen.

“You have no idea,” said Marido. “It takes a lot of self-control to pretend that human shoes don't bother me. But really, they're excruciating... _especially_ high heels. That's why I sometimes perform barefooted, why some of my promotional photos involve me barefooted on a beach, and why I...and Orla, too...prefer strappy sandals.”

“It's not so much that we _like_ them, per se,” said Orla, “though we sort of do...it's more that they don't torture our feet like other shoes do.”

“And I thought you were just being difficult all this time,” said John.

“Go ahead,” said Marido indulgently, gesturing at her leg, “fondle it if you want. Just be careful.”

Noel reached out and wiggled Marido's dewclaw. Unlike her toes, which looked like human ones, the dewclaw toe more closely resembled something reptilian or avian, its nail more claw-like and a good half-inch long. A small patch of what looked like callus tissue was visible on her skin near where the claw would touch it when the toe that held it flexed.

“Huh,” said Noel. “Doesn't seem useful for much.”

“It's not,” said Orla. “Mostly...well, mostly they just get in the way.”

“I'm _still_ trying to figure out how to avoid snagging them on the bedclothes,” said Marido.

“It helps,” said Orla, “when one grows up dealing with them.”

“And my internal organs are different, too. My liver is bisymmetrical and has four lobes. I don't have a spleen...or an appendix. I have a couple of organs you don't...among other things. A lot of our joints are put together slightly differently. Otherwise...well, we're quite similar to you, really.”

“Your skin feels human,” said Noel, brushing his fingertips against Marido's calf.

She jerked it away. “That tickles!”

“What were you expecting?” Orla asked.

“Well,” said Neil, “their skin's a little different from ours. It's quite subtle, though, and not really noticeable unless you're...intimate with an Ingarian.” He smiled. The others visibly tried to ignore the implication.

“So you're reptilian on the inside?” Noel prompted.

Marido elbowed her brother in the ribs, which made him yelp. “Ya-Noel! How many times do I have to tell you? We're _mammals_! More or less. We just happen to be from a different _planet_!”

“Okay, okay,” he said defensively, gingerly rubbing his side. “So you're...avian?”

Marido glared at her brother. “Um...no,” she said flatly.

“Repto-avian?”

Marido smacked Noel upside the back of his head. “Stop it!” she growled.

“Ow,” he said. “I think I've just been attacked by aliens.”

“Aliens, plural? Did you just call me fat?”

“Erm...”

“You did! You called me fat!” Marido abruptly moved over and, without warning, caught Noel in a head-lock and began rubbing her knuckles against his head. “We're...not...birds...or...lizards...you...dolt!”

Orla sprang up, plopped down at Noel's feet, grabbed one of them, peeled off a shoe and sock, tucked the whole thing under her arm, and began to tickle his sole. Noel's howling rose in pitch and he started to squirm.

“Stop, stop, stop!” he howled. “I'm sorry! I take it back!”

“Motuapolualka?” shall we release him, Marido asked.

“Midoib,” I suppose, said Orla. “Lem da thukefi tash,” but it's so much fun. She and Marido released Noel. “There,” said Orla, “ _Now_ you've been attacked by aliens. Are you happy now?”

“Ow,” said Noel, rubbing his head gingerly.

Frances snickered. “You got your arse handed to you by two girls,” she teased.

Noel glared at his blood-sister.

“Just tell your friends,” said Orla, “that you were caught between two alien women and and that you were powerless to resist. Then let them fill in the rest.”

“But one of them's my sister!” Noel protested.

“No, I'm not,” said Marido. “Not really.”

“So if you hatch out of eggs and you're not reptiles or birds, then...” said Noel.

“If I may,” said Neil, “you know how the Enterprise was always seeking out new life forms?”

Everyone nodded.

“This is a real-life example. Ingarians don't fit neatly into our definitions of animal classes because the Ingarian biosphere is...wasn't...like ours. It was different. In some ways, Ingarians are like our mammals and in some ways they're like our reptiles or birds. But neither are they a combination of those. They're simply something else, something we haven't known before. And you'll all just have to accept it.”

“Like a horta being a horta and not a type of something we already knew?” Noel asked.

“Exactly!” said Neil.

“How,” said Kathleen, “did you...wait, this isn't Invasion of the Body Snatchers, is it?”

Marido raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, ya-Mum?”

“Weren't you paying attention?” said Orla. “I put a spell on her.”

Kathleen glared at Orla.

“Just,” said Orla, “ignore the verbage, okay? They're not _really_ spells, we just call them that because English doesn't have the vocabulary to describe what we really do.”

“Which is...?” John asked.

“It's basically a manipulation of energy. The point is that I made Marido appear human.”

“But we would have _felt_ that,” said Kathleen, pointing at Marido's appendages.

“Apparently not,” said Marido. “In fact, I didn't even know.”

“What?”

“As I said,” said Orla, “it was very important that you raise her as your own. So I kept that information from all of you. It was still quite risky, but I think you've seen how much better it was than the alternative. Things were still touch and go for a while, though. You may remember that Marido's vitals were...a little off.”

“I remember a few things being unusual after we brought her home,” said Kathleen.

“That was why I insisted that all medical matters be referred to me. I didn't trust Earth medicine and quite frankly, I still don't. Without knowing anything about her physiology, any doctor could easily have killed her.”

“So,” said John, “all those odd health issues she always had? They're... _not_ leftover from her illness?”

“She was never ill. And they weren't health issues. It's Ingarian physiology. We're all like that. It's why, for instance, she has what to you are such odd food preferences.”

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” sang Noel.

“Ya-Noel!” scolded Marido. “How many times do I have to tell you...we're _not_ reptiles! Don't make me hurt you...again.”

“Well, you would have eaten ice cream and anchovies pizza if you weren't gluten and lactose intolerant.”

“I would no...actually, that doesn't sound half bad.”

“Euw!” said Francis.

“And I suppose,” said Noel, “you liked that monkshood plant you ate when you were seven.”

“Oh, it was delicious,” said Marido. “I would have kept eating if Mum hadn't stopped me.”

“I also seem to remember you offering some to me.”

“But monkshood is fatally toxic!” said John. “That should have killed her. I still don't know why she wasn't at least sick from it.”

“Oh, she wouldn't be,” said Orla. “And I think you're still missing the point. She could eat the entire plant without suffering any ill effects at all.”

“So,” said John, “just what did you do when we called you over for that?”

“I gave her a concoction of vinegar, fish liver oil, Ingarian ironwood fruit, nettle leaves, and goat yogurt.”

“That sounds disgusting,” said Frances.

“I recall it being quite tasty,” said Marido.

“What did that do?” John asked.

“Absolutely nothing. It's...a smoothie...more or less. I just pretended to do something to maintain the illusion of her being human. But the Guinness incident... _that_ was real!”

Kathleen shuddered. “I still have nightmares about that!”

“Alcohol's lethally toxic to us. If I hadn't been in town, that ale would have killed her. That was why I was so angry about it. I had to resort to my wine-to-water spell. Which is how I pretend to drink Guinness. Stuff's quite vile, really.”

“Is that why you were always so adamant that we never give her cough syrup?”

“Ai. That's a good example of how Earth medicine could have killed you many times over.” Orla directed the last at Marido. “Your doctors wouldn't have had any idea what to do and would probably have done entirely the wrong thing. Oh, it would have been just fine for a human, but they'd have had no idea that Marido's not human.”

“And remember,” said Marido, “when I was sick after my aunt visited when I was ten?”

Kathleen nodded. “You were laid up for a week. Still not sure what that was.”

“Tobacco smoke,” said Orla.

John made a hrmphing sound. “I _told_ her not to smoke in the house. Took us months to de-odorize the place. Vile stuff.”

“I couldn't agree more. And it's highly toxic to us, too. Not that it isn't toxic to _you_ , it just hits us harder and faster. Managing that has been...tricky...and highly annoying. You humans can be complete idiots about certain things, you know that?”

“Thanks,” said Noel flatly.

“That wasn't _all_ from her...alien physiology, was it?” John asked. He glanced at Marido. “I mean, you don't act very sick right now.”

“Oh, no, it wasn't,” said Orla. “We don't have any natural immunity to any of your diseases, particularly viruses. So, yes, Marido was frequently sick from that. Which was why I insisted you grow athalas. Among other things, it forces a temporary immune response. What we had with us burned in the bus crash in Wales. Some bloke in Treorci gave us his cold and it would have killed us if some magi hadn't found us in Pontypridd. Though I do wish I'd remembered about that bit I have in my marthwiloros...really should make a list of all that.”

“It's also delicious!” said Marido. “I especially like it candied and in cocoa.”

“It's why I never let you have her vaccinated against anything. It's also why I occasionally took her to Ingary. I always told you it was Scotland, but I lied. I'm sorry. The interstellar conduits we use...used...have...had...interesting bio-filtration properties.”

John exhaled heavily. “I always thought those instructions you gave us were a bit strange.”

“But,” said Kathleen, “we were so afraid of losing you...” She nodded at Marido. “...for good, that we didn't dare ignore them.”

“It all makes sense now, though.”

“Orla swore me to secrecy,” said Marido. “You've no idea how desperately I wanted to tell you. I mean, I knew we weren't in Scotland...that much was obvious. Orla even revealed her own...erm...secret identity. It was all rather exciting!” 

“I,” said Kathleen, “I wish we'd known.”

“I didn't even know,” laughed Marido.

“What?”

“Remember when I started liking boys?”

“Not specifically, no.”

“I do,” said John. “I remember wanting to practice polishing the shotgun.” His remark drew laughs from both his daughters.

“Remember when Orla took me away for a couple of weeks on my fourteenth birthday?”

“Yes,” said Kathleen, “and you were...different after that. Oh, my God! Was _that_ when Orla swapped you?”

“Ya-Mum! This isn't an alien invasion movie anyhow! We're refugees! Besides, if I were going to impersonate someone, I'd choose the Queen of England!”

“But she's old,” said Noel.

“Then no one would suspect me! Orla just finished telling you all about how she swapped me for Mairead as infants. That's what happened! Look, this isn't a diabolical plot to take over the world. It's a friend of ours trying to make a good decision out of a horridly rotten situation. I got a family and you got a daughter and sister to love...a _living_ one. Did you really _want_ something more dramatic?” Marido exhaled. “I shouldn't have lit on you all like that. I'm sorry.” She refreshed her tea and sat back in her chair. “The way I recall it...and ya-Orla, please feel free to correct me if your account differs...went something like this....”


	5. Chapter 5

Loughmoe, Ireland  
April 20, 1993

Mairead Nesbitt awoke with the morning sun spearing her eyes. She groaned and pulled her blanket over her head. It was way too early to be awake. It wasn't even a school day. So why, oh, why, did she always seem to awake so much earlier when she _didn't_ have to be anywhere in particular. It just wasn't fair!

Then she remembered what day it was. Her eyes flew open. In a single move, she tossed aside the bedclothes, pivoted off the mattress and jumped from her top bunk, landing squarely on the floor.

“Why,” said her sister Frances from her own bed, “must you always land like that?”

Mairead twisted around and peered at Frances. “Like what?” she asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“In that...unladylike, undignified manner.”

“I've been landing like that for years,” Mairead protested. “How would you prefer I land?”

“I don't know...like an Olympic gymnast?”

Mairead crossed her arms. “Hrmph.”

“Or you could climb down...like a normal person.”

A normal person? While it was true that Mairead didn't exactly feel normal--she had far too many medical problems, strange food preferences, and a singularly different way of moving and thinking that no one else in her family shared—she resented being reminded, especially by her sister.

It wasn't that she had anything against Frances. The two of them liked each other and got along well most of the time. For that matter, she even got along with her brothers well enough. She didn't, however, mind being told things by her godmother Orla Fallon. Orla seemed to understand her, even better than her parents did. That always made her feel at ease. She loved her family, but they could be...difficult. Orla was never difficult, even when she was telling Mairead things she didn't particularly want to hear.

“Must you try to spoil my birthday when it's barely begun?” Mairead countered.

Frances sighed. “Sorry,” she said penitently. “It's just...I don't know, I guess your...erm...aerobatic ways seem so...boyish.”

Mairead considered her sister for a few moments. Then both of them burst into laughter. Mairead stepped over and hugged Frances.

“I'm sorry I'm in a snit,” said Frances.

“So am I.” Mairead turned around and went about getting dressed.

“Speaking of boys,” said Frances as she pried herself out of bed, “what about Seamus?”

Mairead felt a smile come unbidden to her face and saw herself blush furiously in the mirror. “Oh...erm...he's...cute.”

Frances laughed. “Oh, Mairead, you're so funny! Your cheeks about match the tulips out front.”

“They do not!” Mairead protested.

“Do, too,” Frances teased.

“Okay, then, so what? Can't I like boys? I mean...I'm a girl. And girls are supposed to like boys.”

“But do you? Like boys, I mean?”

“Of course I do! You think I'd like girls? Yuck!” She picked up her hairbrush and began to run it through her long, blonde hair. “Besides, I really do want to get married some day.”

“To Seamus?” Frances poked.

Mairead blushed again. “Maybe,” she said evasively.

“What about children?”

“Well...I suppose maybe a couple.”

“You know what that would mean, don't you?”

Mairead looked sharply at her sister. That girl just wouldn't leave well enough alone. “You mean...you know what going you know where?” Just the thought of it sent her into a dizzying spiral of desire and embarrassment. Who'd have thought that being a fourteen-year-old girl could be so confusing! She knew she should probably ask her mother about all the feelings she'd been having. After all, the woman had six children! And weren't the strange feelings what started children after all? At least it reassured her that she _did_ like boys, which she supposed was a good thing. It meant there was something _right_ with her for a change.

Frances pinned up her hair and grabbed her makeup kit. “Well, that's a relief,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, with all the things about you that are...abnormal. Disliking makeup, for instance.”

“It's gross!” Mairead protested.

“Don't you want to look beautiful for Seamus?”

Mairead crossed her arms defiantly. “How beautiful am I really if I need...paint...to doctor my looks?”

“I'm just saying,” said Frances, as she brushed rouge on her cheeks, “that if you want to attract a man, you should think about these things.”

“I think I have a few years. In the meantime...” A dreamy expression crept over her face. “...I'll see if I can't get Seamus to kiss me _without_ resorting to troweling mortar all over myself. Besides, you know how my skin breaks out so. Last time, that rash was so bad...well, I doubt they even make anything that'll cover something like that.” Her stomach growled. “Especially when there's breakfast to be had. I'll leave you to your...vices.”

Frances rolled her eyes. “I'll get married before you!”

“I'm only fourteen!” said Mairead as she stepped into the hall. She closed the door behind her before closing her eyes. She shifted sideways and leaned on the wall momentarily, then sighed. After a few moments, she padded down the hallway toward the ruckus coming from the kitchen.

With four brothers and her father, it seemed there was always a ruckus somewhere and that somewhere quite often involved food. How they didn't all starve was beyond her. Maybe her mother secretly caught starlings and hedgehogs to supplement chicken and dumplings. It was a very good thing they had such a large vegetable garden--not that Mairead could eat half of it without being ill in one of several different ways. She sighed again.

The sight in the kitchen was as usual: Mairead's mother Kathleen cooking breakfast, her father John and brother Sean trying to help, and her other brothers Karl, Noel, and Michael being boys. That typically meant they were holding an unnecessarily boisterous discussion that went back and forth between girls and food.

Mairead walked wordlessly into the room, quietly took a seat at the table, and waited for someone to notice. It wasn't that she'd ever been much of a wallflower. On the contrary, she was really rather outgoing, energetic, and generally effervescent. At that moment, however, two things went to war within her. First, she didn't particularly feel like trying to compete with her brothers, particularly on the frequent occasions when one or more of them were of a mind to tease her about her gastronomic preferences. Second, she often felt like a fragile flower and she felt she was on the cusp of a full-blown attack of such. But it was her birthday, for goodness sake!

“Well,” said Kathleen, “if it isn't the birthday girl!” Kathleen passed the flipper she held to John, wiped her hands, and elbowed her way around her sons to give Mairead a hug. It wasn't a particularly firm hug, but Mairead could feel her mother's love in it all the same. It was welcome, but didn't do much to assuage her feelings of fragility. Sure, she had what felt like every medical malady in the book and several that weren't in the book, but that didn't mean she was going to fall apart if she so much as sneezed.

“Good morning, Mum,” said Mairead. “Breakfast smells good.” She meant that. She really did.

Kathleen pulled back, gently held Mairead by the shoulders at arm's length, and smiled. “Good. Because it's all things you can eat.” She leaned closer to whisper in Mairead's ear. “And I've made your brothers promise to keep their mouths shut. Especially since it's your birthday.”

That gave Mairead a warm feeling. She hoped those boys would actually mind that promise, unlike last year. Though she'd had to grudgingly give them credit for containing themselves until supper time. “Thanks, Mum,” she said.

Kathleen returned to the kitchen and one by one, Mairead's brothers each gave her a light hug and wished her a happy birthday, followed by her father.

“Where's that sister of yours?” John asked.

Mairead rolled her eyes. “Attempting to improve on her looks.” She snorted. “As if she needs it.”

John chuckled. “She'll get over it...maybe.”

A moment later, Frances flounced into the room and gave Mairead a hug. She was the only member of the family who hugged her like she meant it. Mairead valued that. She was also quite thoroughly done up in face paint and hair-something. The two of them had had more conversations about that than Mairead could count.

Mairead's previous feelings were summarily replaced by the well-known one about being a minority. She seemed to be the only teenage girl in town, or any of the neighboring ones for that matter, who wasn't fixated on makeup and fashion. Frances was sure she was just a little behind. Mairead hoped her sister was wrong. It wasn't simply that she had no interest in makeup and so on, but that the very idea of smearing that stuff all over her face made her skin crawl. That, and shoes made her feet hurt terribly, often to the point of tears, so what was the point?

Kathleen ushered everyone to the table—well, shooing was more like it. Mairead smiled as she always did when her mother made her brothers cower. She hoped she'd have that effect on her own sons, should she ever have any. But that would mean...she blushed furiously at the thought and hoped no one would notice.

Breakfast consisted of omelets made with goat milk, onions, early greens--half of which were wild--beets, and turnips. There were also English muffins made with buckwheat and acorn flours and ground pine nuts with a salmonberry, rose-hip, bunchberry, mountain-ash berry, and manzanita berry spread and sheep butter to go with them. Mairead noticed that everyone else avoided the berry spread—which was fine by her, as it was one of her favorite foods. She also noticed that her mother had once again declined to make anything with horse chestnut flour or bluebell bulbs.

“Oh,” said Kathleen, setting her fork on her plate and moving to get up. “I nearly forgot.” She walked briskly out of the room and returned a few moments later with a tall, square bottle of something and handed it to Mairead. “For you, dear. I picked it up when I was in California for that music conference last fall.”

Mairead accepted the bottle and looked at it. It read: “The Olive Pit...Honey Balsamic Vinegar.” Mairead's face lit up. Vinegar was one of her very favorite things. She quickly spun the bottle around to check the ingredients, as she always did when evaluating any packaged food.

“Yes,” said Kathleen, “it's completely safe.” Nearly all vinegar was.

Mairead stood up and gave her mother a big hug. “Thanks, Mum! You're the best.”

Kathleen returned the hug. “You're welcome. And happy birthday. I do have a couple more things for you, but I suppose they'll wait.”

Mairead peeled the foil off the top of the bottle, pulled out the cork closure, and gently drizzled some of the contents over her omelet. Then she re-corked the bottle, set it on the table, and took a bite of her breakfast. She closed her eyes as she savored it. The slight sweetness from the honey and the zingy tang of the vinegar nicely offset the savory flavors of the omelet. It was heavenly!

She slowly reached out for the bottle, then brought it protectively to her breast as if to say, “mine.” Everyone at the table chuckled.

“Mairead,” said Frances, “you're funny!”

“Are you sure you're not an alien?” said Noel.

Mairead almost threw the bottle of vinegar at him. Instead, she set it down quite forcefully on the table and glared at her brother. She hated it when he teased her like that. She could handle some sorts of teasing, but there was always something behind his voice when he called her an alien—which was often—that just grated on her nerves and reminded her of how different she was. There wasn't anything wrong with being different, but Noel didn't seem to grasp that. Instead of celebrating her uniqueness, he was just...mean about it.

“Noel,” said John, “be polite.”

“But...”

“I said, be polite. What's our rule?”

Noel deflated slightly. “If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.”

“Quite right.” John inclined his head expectantly toward his son.

“Sorry,” said Noel curtly.

Mairead nodded graciously. Her brother didn't sound particularly sincere, but it was still good manners to accept an apology, regardless of whether or not the other person meant it. Still, she locked eyes with him, as if to say, “This isn't over.”

She took the last few bites of her breakfast in silence. She wished that, just once, she could have a _happy_ birthday. Instead, each one somehow managed to go all pear-shaped in some way or another. At least...

Her thoughts were derailed by a knock at the door. As she'd hoped, it was her godmother Orla Fallon.

“I hope I'm not too early,” said Orla.

“Oh, no,” said Kathleen. “Not at all. We were just finishing up with breakfast. Noel, why don't you and Frances take care of the dishes?”

Both children grumbled slightly, but obeyed.

Mairead trotted into the living room, clutching the bottle of vinegar. It rightfully belonged in the kitchen, but she was rather afraid Noel might pour it out in a fit of spite. She knew it was irrational, but she felt it all the same. Besides, she rather wanted to share some with Orla, who was the only woman she knew who shared her taste for vinegar.

She hugged Orla, who hugged her back. That was another thing she liked about Orla. She hugged like she meant it! Everyone else Mairead had ever hugged seemed like they were afraid they'd break her. Orla also seemed to understand her like no one else, not even her own mother.

“So,” said Orla to Mairead, “are we all ready?”

“Oh!” Mairead had nearly forgotten about her trip. It was a good thing she'd packed the night before. “Sorry, I'll...go get my things. Um...here.” She handed the vinegar to Orla. “Try this.” Then she trotted off down the hall, returning a minute later with a suitcase.

“I still don't believe that's all you're packing!” called Frances from the other room.

Mairead stuck out her tongue at her sister.

“Mairead, dear,” said Orla, “please be polite.” That was another thing about Orla. She somehow managed to tell Mairead things she didn't want to hear in a way that didn't make her immediately want to rebel. That was something neither of her parents or any of her teachers had ever quite been able to accomplish.

Mairead sighed, then set down her suitcase, walked over to her sister, and hugged her. “Sorry for that. I didn't mean it.”

“Me neither. But I still don't see how you're going to survive for two weeks with only that much clothing.”

“Erm...Frances? You know I only own the one. You also know I don't have that many clothes either. And I barely wear shoes...except for flip-flops. And I'm sure there's someplace in Scotland I can go shopping should the need arise.”

Frances tittered. “But Mairead, you know the Scots don't have any fashion sense.”

“Niether do I, according to you.”

“But I'm not finished with you,” said Frances with a smile.

Mairead rolled her eyes and giggled. “You just won't give up, will you?”

“Of course not. _One_ of us has to make you respectable.”

Mairead turned and walked back toward the front door, giving her mother and father strong hugs on the way—not that they were returned in kind. “I'll see you all in a couple of weeks!” At that, she followed Orla out the door, across the large entry courtyard, and thence to the street where the older woman had parked her car.

“I really do wish we could use one of those magical doors of yours,” said Mairead once they'd pulled away from the curb. “It would be so much more convenient than having you drive all the way from Cnoc an Eanaigh all the time.”

“Oh, it's no trouble. Besides, how do you think I always manage to get here so fast?” Orla winked.

Mairead giggled. “So when are you going to teach _me_ how to use magic?”

“Who says I will?”

“Oh, come now. I distinctly remember that just last fall, you promised to do just that.”

Orla smiled knowingly. “So I did. And so I shall. You don't quite know it yet, but you're about to take your first step into a much larger world.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Orla's smile broadened. “You'll see.”

“Why do I not like the sound of that?”

Orla tittered. “Oh, ya-Mairead, you do amuse me much. That vinegar's delicious, by the way. Oh, don't worry, I only took a sip. Maybe we can share some more later. Anyhow, how's life been since I last saw you?”

“About the same.”

“Oh? Surely there's _something_ new.”

“Well...there's this boy...” She went on to gush about Seamus. Clearly, she was a lot more smitten with him than she'd realized, even after that morning's discussion with Frances. She felt she could be completely open with Orla about, well, pretty much anything. It was almost like...like Orla _was_ her mother. Which was preposterous, of course.

Then Mairead went on to vent about school, her sister, her brothers, and so on. All the while, Orla just listened and occasionally asked a clarifying question or two. Mairead knew the exhortations were coming. They always did, but Orla always waited until Mairead was finished before giving opinions or advise.

“Oh, no!” Mairead finally exclaimed.

“Is something wrong?”

“I...I forgot my violin! How am I going to get away without practicing for two weeks?!”

Orla didn't say anything.

“We have to go back,” said Mairead.

“No, we don't,” said Orla evenly.

“Yes, we do!” Mairead was beginning to panic.

“Trust me, ya-Mairead. You'll be fine.”

“But...”

“Just trust me.”

They drove the rest of the way to Orla's house in silence.

“You know,” said Mairead, once they'd entered Orla's living room, suitcase in hand and her flip-flops smacking the bottoms of her feet, “one of these days, we should actually _go_ to Scotland. I think my family suspects something.”

“Of course they do,” laughed Orla. “They're all quite intelligent. And, yes, even the brothers. For all that they're, you know, boys.”

That brought a laugh from Mairead. “I suppose it's making me actually learn about the place, though. Because it really wouldn't do to keep saying I'm going to Scotland, but never being able to say anything about it. Or worse, make something up in front of someone who _has_ actually been.”

“That's true. Fortunately, there are some places on Ingary that look like Scotland.”

“My friends are starting to ask to see photos, though. They say that if there are no photos, it didn't happen.”

“Ah, non scripta, non est, sah?”

“Something like that. And no, we shouldn't try to use magic. That's like...like PhotoShopping. It's bad enough I've been lying to everybody about where we've been going.”

“Do you think they'd believe you?”

“Why do I suddenly feel like I'm in 'Prince Caspian?'”

“As in...how'd that go...if you're not in the habit of lying, then you're either telling the truth, or are utterly mad.”

Mairead cocked an eyebrow. “That isn't very reassuring.” She sighed. “But you're right...again...as usual. If I just up and said, 'Oh, by the way, I haven't really ever been to Scotland, I've really been going to another planet that just _looks_ like Scotland,' they'd put me away!”

“Let's just hope it doesn't come to that.” Orla smiled mischievously. “But if it does, I'll use magic to break you out.”

“Thanks...I think.”

Orla locked her front door, then stepped over to the mantle and picked up a doorknob. It had several different markings on it. Mairead recognized it as what was essentially a key to the interstellar conduit Orla employed to travel to and from Ingary. Her face lit up as Orla swapped it for the ordinary knob on one of the hall closets.

“I do so love going to Ingary,” said Mairead. She uncorked the vinegar she still carried and took a sip. “It's such a wonderful place!”

“I'm glad you like it,” said Orla, as she twisted the knob and opened the door. “I really am. Shall we?” She motioned to the darkness beyond the threshold.

Mairead grinned, picked up her suitcase, and barged through the door.

* * *

Mairead Nesbitt lurched into a familiar room. The voyage between Orla Fallon's small house in Cnoc an Eanaigh and the older woman's home on the outskirts of High Norland City had only taken moments. Mairead had made the trip more times than she'd bothered to count, so she was quite familiar with the momentary disorientation and the brief, but severe, chills. Yet she still found it amazing that she and Orla had just traveled some four hundred fifty light-years!

It was always exciting and her family would never believe it. That was too bad, for she so desperately wanted to share it. Everyone on Earth practically drooled over the idea of extraterrestrial life. Little did anyone else know that so-called First Contact had been made millennia ago, or that Mairead's own godmother was an alien.

The room was dark. Mairead took two full steps forward into the gloom. She heard Orla's footsteps and the door close behind her. As usual, Mairead remained still as Orla took a few steps to the left and said, “Fugh!” Flame!

The faint glow of candlelight flared up in the darkness.

“Daln is in roughly three hours,” said Orla. “You're welcome to take your things to the guest room and nap until then if you'd like.”

Mairead fought the urge to yawn. Truth be told, the anticipation had kept her awake much of the night. That typically happened the day before important events—recitals, birthdays, holidays, school exams, visits to or by relatives, excursions with Orla, and so on. “Sure,” she said.

She'd expected the time change, too. She seldom knew what time of day it would be on arrival in High Norland, or on her return to Ireland. She could probably have done the math if she'd cared to do so, though it would have taken some of the fun out of it. While Earth had a twenty-four hour day, Ingary's were twenty-six hours and seventeen minutes. Not that an Ingarian hour was the same as an Earth hour, but that was how Orla had explained it.

Mairead carried her suitcase up the stairs, Orla right behind her, candlestick in hand. Mairead was glad of that, as she would surely have tripped in the dark.

The guest room door already stood open. “I'll come give a knock shortly after daln,” said Orla. Daln was the Ingarian word for sunrise and the twenty or so minutes on either side of the sun's cresting the horizon.

“Okay.” The two women smiled at each other. Then Mairead nudged the door closed, plunging the room the rest of the way into darkness. She set her luggage on the floor next to the wall and felt her way to the bed. She kicked off her flip-flops and simply lay down on top of the bed clothes with her hands folded comfortably across her abdomen. Before long, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

High Norland City, Kingdom of High Norland, Ingary, Lirosh System  
8 Sheram, 36 King Adolphus X, 1270 Fourth Age

Mairead Nesbitt awoke feeling refreshed. The diffuse yellow light of pre-dawn, called melgen in the Ingarian language, spilled through her godmother's guest room window outside High Norland City. She sat up and swung her legs over the bed, hitting the floor with an unintended amount of force.

She cringed slightly at the loud thump, glad that only the kitchen lay below her. She was used to descending from an upper bunk. She smiled and stood up. She could certainly get used to a floor-level bed, should she ever have one. She'd take two weeks of the one behind her in a pinch, though.

She stepped over to the small standing mirror that rested on a dresser across from the bed's foot. She gazed into the glass and cocked her head pensively. She pulled open one of the small drawers. Inside were several ribbons and a few hair pins.

Mairead pulled out a dark blue ribbon, then gathered her hair at the nape of her neck and tied it off in a ponytail, pulling the ribbon into a nice, floppy bow. She evaluated herself in the mirror. She still wasn't sure what she thought of how she looked with a ponytail. She'd worn it that way as a little girl, but generally just let it hang loose as of late.

On Ingary, though, most women wore their hair in a ponytail—girls and unmarried women gathered at the nape of the neck, married women gathered above the occipital lobe. Not everyone followed it, of course, but it seemed to be a very wide-spread trend of sorts. Well, more than a trend. Those tended to come and go. Rather it was...more of a loosely-held tradition, or so Orla had explained it.

She twirled around, feeling the way her ponytail swung and her skirts swished around her legs as her bare feet beat softly and pleasantly on the hardwood floor. She walked briskly to the door and opened it. She nearly tripped on something and looked down.

In front of the door lay a pair of brown leather sandals designed with wide, sturdy straps. She smiled. She swore Orla could read her mind. On second thought, if Mairead had a guinea for every time she'd complained about shoes, she'd probably never have to get a job...ever. She nudged the sandals around with her foot and stepped into them, pulling the straps over her heels. They were obviously designed for Ingarian feet, but they fit hers perfectly, even had a little bit of padding built into the otherwise flat soles, and above all, were airy and comfortable! Now why, why, why, in the wide world of all that was rational and sane, did nobody back home make shoes like that?

As an afterthought, she turned one foot upward and craned her neck around to look. Shoes back home varied widely, though one could nearly always tell just by looking at it what sort of shoe it was. Not so in High Norland and, she'd been told, much of Ingary. One sometimes had to examine the sole construction.

The soles of her sandals were three-ply. The two bottommost layers were woven together in such a way as to vaguely resemble the lug soles she'd seen on hiking boots back home. The criss-crossed blocky pattern functioned in much the same way, too. Mairead grinned. That Orla had left those particular shoes meant she intended a walk—a very long, vigorous walk, too. Mairead loved those, as she got to see some very interesting bits of countryside, sometimes high enough into the mountains that Orla had needed to use magic to deal with altitude sickness. She sighed slightly at the recollection of yet another of her many ailments.

She made a mental note to ask about taking the sandals back home with her. There were plenty of days she sorely wished her modified flip-flops weren't the only comfortable shoes available. People did an awful lot of walking in Ireland! Her parents had even once taken her to a cobbler to have shoes custom-fit for her, but even those hurt, even if only a little, though she'd been glad to take that much improvement. After that, they'd taken her to a podiatrist, who'd been just as baffled as everyone else. Oddly, only Orla had seemed unsurprised--but if she knew anything, she'd been keeping it to herself.

Mairead gently closed the guest room door, then descended to the main living area on the second floor. She was alone, so she spent some time reacquainting herself with the framed sepia-tone photographs sitting on the mantle of a purple-grey fieldstone masonry stove that supplied heat for the house in general, as well as for baking and cooking.

There was one of Orla by herself, leaning casually against a wall, wearing a dark, ankle-length dress and a warm smile. Another was of Orla and her husband Shan—whom she called 'John' when in Ireland--on their wedding day. A third was of Shan by himself, striking what Mairead regarded as a manly sort of pose. A fourth was one that continued to captivate Mairead. Larger than the others, it was of a young couple that Orla had once known.

The story went that the couple, Loran and Melano Arghim, had died some time ago, but Orla had been very close friends with them. They'd left behind a baby girl who'd been adopted by another friend of Orla's who at the time had recently lost their own child to complications stemming from a collection of congenital birth defects. It was all very sad. What gave Mairead the most pause, however, was that looking at the photograph was almost like looking into a mirror. It was eerie, yet she found herself inexplicably drawn to it.

Mairead tore herself from the photograph as she did on every visit to Orla's home in High Norland. She was sure there was a reasonable explanation for her uncanny resemblance to Melano, and certainly more to the story, though Orla hadn't expounded. Maybe the details were disturbing. If so, Mairead was glad not to know about them. They'd probably have given her nightmares anyway.

She strolled into the kitchen, which was more of a dedicated kitchen area in an otherwise open space than it was its own room, separated from the main dining and living areas only by the masonry stove. A plate of muffins sat on the tile counter. They probably weren't fresh, else she would have smelled them baking. She took one and bit into it. Sure enough, it was cold and just a little stiff. They'd probably been baked the night before. They were still delicious. It wasn't the first time Mairead's arrival had occurred so soon following a meal back home. Sometimes she also arrived close to mealtime in High Norland. But Orla usually kept something like muffins, biscuits, or fruit as snacks.

She chewed several times and then paused. She hadn't stopped to think about what might be in the muffins. For that matter, she never had to worry about anything she ate during her visits to Ingary. But that didn't make any sense. She was on another planet, for goodness sake! Surely there was _something_ that should kill her at first bite. God knew there was plenty of that back home.

She resumed chewing, but in a thoughtful manner. The more she visited Ingary, the more certain things felt...off. She also continued to have the distinct impression that Orla knew far more than she'd been sharing and that some of it was vitally important to the point of having life-and-death consequences. Mairead resolved to get some more real answers out of her godmother.

“Ya-Marido?” Orla's voice floated down from the floor above. 'Marido' was the name Orla called Mairead while on Ingary. Masculine names were always consonant-final and feminine names were always vowel-final. It was something that, according to Orla, seldom varied anywhere and was probably tied to the language. It had been a bit awkward at first, but she'd grown used to it.

Mairead swallowed her bite of muffin and stepped into the living room. She looked up toward the open, vaulted ceiling and the balcony that ran along the perimeter of the third floor. “I'm down here,” she called. She paused, then cleared her throat and repeated it in Ingarian. “Mihin.”

Orla always spoke her native language exclusively whenever she was on Ingary and she insisted that Mairead do the same. At first, the arrangement had been quite awkward. But Mairead had picked up the language surprisingly quickly. In fact, she was more or less fluent in it, which was something that amused her to no end. She had a rough working knowledge of Irish Gaelic, enough French to survive in France, but was fluent in an _alien_ language! If only her brothers knew! Even before she'd understood any of it, though, she'd found it to be very pretty, and so had very little resistance to the idea of learning to speak it.

Orla glanced over the railing, smiled, then quickly descended the open wooden stairs, her full skirts billowing slightly as she went. Mairead smiled back. Orla's shin-length dress had short sleeves and seemed to have been cut out of a single length of what looked like linen. It wasn't linen, of course, but a somewhat similar Ingarian plant which fibers naturally dried to a sage green color, rather than to the tan-beige of Earth flax. It set off her vibrant blue eyes quite nicely. She'd tied a red-brown sash—the one woven from the bark fibers of a tree superficially similar to Earth's giant sequoia--about her waist, letting the free ends dangle a bit off to the side. She wore flat-heeled, wide-strapped leather sandals just like the ones she'd left outside Mairead's room. It was, actually, the perfect outfit for early fall.

“Leh,” so why is it, said Mairead, once she'd swallowed the bite of muffin in her mouth, “tshon prarinaim thufaskalm pio yorsimanath arfim?” ...that you always manage to have far more fashion sense than my sister?

Orla shrugged. “Napratith,” practice, she said with a hint of a giggle. “Qerl llutisienthi thukati miarfim,” I have something that might interest you.

She walked over to a closet and returned with what looked like a brown leather violin case, which she offered to Mairead.

Mairead set her half-eaten muffin on a nearby table, then slowly extended her hands and took the case from Orla. She set it carefully on the tea table and opened it. Her face lit up. Inside was, unsurprisingly, a violin. But it was the most beautiful one she'd ever seen.

To the casual observer, it might have looked a lot like any other violin. But when one had studied an instrument as thoroughly as Mairead had over the last eight years, one became intimately familiar with all aspects of that instrument. She immediately saw it to be unlike any violin she'd ever seen, especially her own back home. The differences were subtle and expressed in the overall contour of the body, its thickness, the bridge configuration, F-hole shape, string attachment points, the golden amber color of the wood and the intricate grain pattern still visible through the finish, the length of the neck, and the shape of the scroll.

“It's...it's gorgeous!” she exclaimed. At Orla's cocked head and raised eyebrow, Mairead cleared her throat and rephrased her response. “Il alainar!”

Orla beamed. “Tofilliim daorosh tiperthinen. Dil tiis. Nal-genith!” It belonged to a very dear friend of mine. It's yours now. Happy birthday!

Mariead's jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “Si...sinontromith!” You...you're not serious!

“Fusilka,” of course I am. Mairead thought she saw a brief flash of sadness wash across Orla's face. “Ehtos, qerl sitiarfim nakatesr wotathrehanna,” besides, its previous owner would very much have wanted you to have it.

Mairead returned her gaze to the violin. “Mi...thulethang minonfilas,” I...I don't know what to say.

“Silein?” Don't you?

Mairead felt a tear come to her eye. She whirled around and gave Orla a tight hug. “Loramin!” Thank-you! she said as Orla hugged her back. In that moment, Mairead felt like Orla really was like a second mother to her.

“Uda?” well, said Orla after a few moments. “Fodulawan. Fothrefirt.” Go ahead. Give it a go. She nodded toward the violin.

Mairead felt a surge of excitement as she picked up the instrument, tucking the chinrest beneath her chin as she'd done more times than she could count. Its additional size felt a bit awkward, but she was confident she could get used to it in time, especially if she were to grow just a little more before finally settling into her adult size. She grabbed one of two bows, both of which were, like the violin, subtly different from the ones she was used to seeing back home, and laid it across the strings. She waited a moment, then drew.

Her smile broadened as she began to play. She immediately noticed that the instrument was somewhat temperamental and that it was going to require more finesse...and a _lot_ more practice...to play it effectively. She also noticed its tone was a little different, but in a way she couldn't describe. After a couple of minutes, she brought her tune to a resolution.

“Il thofmas!” It's wonderful, she said as she returned the instrument to its case. “Il...tshon otrim delkhurosh shuwera. Lem thukati paskis timithimo miipothe.” It's a little...harder to play than my other one. But I suppose it gives me something to strive for. She cocked her head and peered at the violin and the bows. “Nathowai thutiguii assorkir, nonsah?” The bows aren't horse hair, are they? It was more of a statement.

Orla smiled. “Nonfusilka. We nallingeni naasilehaharanu amigi. Thukhathem tinanteshal, we ipethith merik toegsulaash astonos reatsal. Si sithrehan, thudraoihta misithithaskal thuplialirt tiepimi eginteol.” Of course not. And the strings are pure ingarium. They'll resist wear, as well as being partly responsible for the difference in tone compared with steel. If you'd like, I can teach you how to use magic to prolong their life indefinitely.

Mairead felt her eyebrows raise. “Il...misima, thudar sikontheka okhil?” Is that...I mean, you can do that?

Orla chuckled and winked, which made Mairead giggle in a particularly girlish fashion.

“We nasora astema awon assitherollen tilashepem.” And the body is hewn from a single piece of Ingarian ironwood.

Mairead's eyes went wide. “Nonil...?” Isn't that...

“Tarpisislak tifasemengka? Ai.” What's growing in your back yard? Yes.

“Na-Dathi thullani asshrion tsoi tiindatlo titiklathre wran blagrin. Nakapi thudraoihta tosheo tillopresim.” Dad went through three saw blades just pruning it last year. Someone must have used magic on this. Mairead nodded to the violin.

“Pram...lein. Palotralorin titashdonenem.” Actually...no. It was made the old-fashioned way.

“Lem nadar...thuwithoni, kalai ifos...tilloapanguen.” But that must have taken...weeks, maybe months.

“Thuwrani, dithanosh.” Years, more likely.

Mairead felt a new surge of excitement rise within her. Not only did her new violin belong to a close friend of Orla's, it must also have been frighteningly difficult, and therefore obscenely expensive, to produce. “Mi...thusheo minondilthe ontos.” I...really don't deserve this.

Orla put a hand on Mairead's shoulder. “Thuarloi. Nakatesr roimsho asti wotilowothnenosh.” Nonsense. Its previous owner would have been very proud of you.

Mairead smiled. She wasn't sure just how much credit she could take for that. Her entire family was musical. Her own parents were well-known music teachers. So she came by it naturally. Just as naturally, she worked hard at her music, but she still doubted the saying that genius was only _one_ percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.

Orla went into the kitchen and and returned with a stiff, woven basket that looked like wicker, but probably wasn't. “Fomolowi,” let's go, she said.

Mairead grinned and followed Orla out the front door, down the pink granite stairs to ground level, through the palisade gate, and down the wide graveled path toward the main road. She glanced northward toward the walls of High Norland City. Its gates stood open as they usually did after daln. A donkey cart rolled out from the gate-house shadow. The sleek form of a dirigible hovered over the city's spires as it rose slowly into the air.

Mairead paused to watch it. It was like watching airliners driving around on the tarmac back home, but in slow motion. Somehow it seemed to fit with the barely industrial pace of the rest of Ingary. The craft cleared the city wall, then accelerated eastward, the light green glow of magical energy pouring out of the pair of cylinders mounted to the craft's gondola. It was a beautiful thing to behold.

She sighed deeply.

“Fi nafuth?” asked Orla. Is there a problem?

“Lein,” no. “It's just...I wish people back home could accept magic. It could solve so many problems. But you said it could just as easily create others.” Mairead noticed Orla didn't try to correct her. It was so easy to slip back and forth between languages.

“Sah.” That's so. They'd had that conversation before. Among other things, magical warfare had contributed to Ingary's population suppression. Still, Mairead remembered how violently Orla had shuddered when presented with the idea of Earth getting its hands on real magic. Clearly there was a lot more potential than camouflage, interstellar travel, and dirigible propulsion.

Orla led Mairead up the road away from High Norland City. Mairead always loved her outings with Orla, who clearly loved showing off her homeland. But there seemed to be more to it than mere show and tell. It was as though Orla had a vested interest in teaching Mairead all about High Norland and the rest of Ingary and in a way that implied that it really mattered to her in a deeply personal way. Moreover, she did it in a way that implied she thought it should matter to Mairead in more than just a matter of fascination with the exotic.

With the exception of the occasional exchange of pleasantries between the pair of them and farmers hauling their goods to market, their walk was a wordless one for a while. Mairead followed Orla across the transition where the white gravel that paved the road for three hours' walk from the city gradually thinned where it rose through the upland riparian zone of the River Norland, then as the grey alluvial dirt gave way to reddish, purple-tinged clay, and then to peppery gravel as the road ascended the pass southward.

Mairead didn't mind the silence. Back home, what with her brothers' boisterousness and the whole family's musical instruments, it was never even remotely quiet. There were some days, her ears were literally ringing by bedtime.

She took the time to look about, gazing at the yellows, oranges, and reds blazing on the autumn leaves. Often the same tree, or even the same leaf, bore all three colors and even the occasional purple. A few needle-leaved trees, initially restricted to the low ridge-tops, bore a muted blue-ish hue that covered the entire plant down to the bark and the amber-tinged sap oozing from insect bores. She always had to remind herself that the seasons in High Norland didn't necessarily match those back in Ireland. Earth's year was 365 days long, while Ingary's was 427 days. She was glad High Norland was in Ingary's northern hemisphere, else things would really have been backward. But she wouldn't have needed that to know she was on an alien world.

Few flowers were in bloom. There were some, though. Their forms were familiar enough and superficially similar to Earth flowers: daisy, hellebore, jack-in-the-pulpit, and gentian, all with some notable differences that would have any plantsman back home drooling and then some. Orla had explained during a previous trip that such late bloomers supplied nectar for birds and insects and would subsequently set fruit during early winter as the snows began to fly and would provide food for wildlife after the late summer and autumn fruits were gone.

A few birds flitted about, others chirping unseen in the branches. Most of them looked like Earth birds and while Mairead knew otherwise, it was still easier to think of them in terms of the ones with which she was familiar from back home. Grey-blue creepers, visible only when they moved, blended in with the conifers.

A huge flock of geese flew noisily southwestward, their honks deeper and more resonant than the ones she knew. Above the geese soared a smaller flock of much larger animals that Orla had said were similar to the ancient Earth animal called Quetzalcoatlus.

A large flock of starling-sparrows erupted from the edge of the nearby riparian wood, pursued by a few animals that looked rather like rhamphorhynchus, which soon broke off their pursuit to briefly harass a large hawk-raven. The hawk-raven, in turn, changed course, and careened off downslope to attack a large muskrat, much to the surprise of a solitary rust-brown heron, which took flight with a gonging call.

Still the pair climbed. The broad-leaved deciduous trees gave way to tall glaucus-needled conifers, which in turn yielded to shorter, purplish-needled conifers and and orange-tinged olive junipers peppered with iridescent blue berries. Above the southern pass, the rocks and screes were dotted with stunted, ruddy leather-leaved shrubs like nothing Mairead had ever seen and which Orla called farkhan.

Mairead didn't think she'd ever been up so high and her lungs were quite thankful the pass was no higher. Orla led her off the road to the right and along a path that descended gently through the stunted conifers that were little more than oversized shrubs themselves. Their route continued to descend into a hollow rimmed with small trees that Orla called urlaf, curiously intermediate between a fir and a live-oak, and filled with the yellowing foliage of what, from the fruits, looked like some kind of terrestrial orchid and another that may have been like a shooting-star, with head-tall corn-lilies rimming the hollow near the urlaf trees.

Orla suddenly froze and subtly motioned Mairead to do likewise. Then she nodded toward the foot of the hollow. A stag, its half-meter-long, unbranched antlers arcing over its head, stepped tentatively out from between two corn-lilies. The sunlight glinted on the third, much smaller, antler on its snout just aft of its purple-black nose. It twitched its ears, then bent down to nip the stalk off an orchid, chewing pensively. After a few minutes, it tipped its head back slightly and flared its nostrils, searching for some there-and-gone scent it seemed to have thought it had smelled.

Mairead watched the animal, mesmerized by its grace. The light played over its amber, olive-streaked coat as it made its way across the clearing, slowly turning its head one way and then the other, surveying its surroundings with its huge, dark eyes, while nibbling on the vegetation. It was beautiful!

The stag's head suddenly whipped around, its ebony antlers glinting in the sun. It took a few strong steps forward, then bolted across the clearing. It crashed through the corn-lilies on the other side, veered sharply to the left, and disappeared downslope toward the taller conifers.

Moments, later, another animal burst out of the corn-lilies and sprinted across the clearing in what seemed to be only two strides, vanishing on the stag's trail. It moved so quickly, Mairead saw it mainly as a grey-brown blur. Moments later, a covey of something that from their distance looked like archaeopteryx rose chattering into the air, followed by a shrill, bugling scream.

Mairead winced. “Eh...ehen dar?” What...what was that, she asked, her gaze still trained on the other end of the clearing.

“Naarpakhr,” predator, replied Orla. “Omfos ter ard we ter deon mitinshopaen...ne ter boral. Molluthar arakh.” I didn't think they'd still be up this high this late...or this far north. We should be cautious.

Mairead turned toward her godmother. “Oh, really?” she asked, making little effort to hide her sarcasm. “Sishopaka?” Do you think? Then she noticed the recurve bow and quiver of arrows Orla held in her far hand.

Orla thrust the basket toward Mairead. “Qerl thusheo silludenam, ya-Marido, mishopa.” I think, ya-Marido, that you should carry this.

Mairead took the basket tentatively. “Pos...” how, she began, gesturing weakly at the bow. “Raglash,” never mind, she added. The other woman probably had it in the basket and had probably used magic to make it fit.

Orla just smiled. She looped the baldric holding the quiver over her head, then put a broad-tipped arrow to the string. “Nadraoihta loithard we purlirosh,” high-level, quite complicated magic, she answered anyway. “Dean misiyolanal,” I'll tell you later. Then she turned and sidled between the corn-lilies and back into the conifers.

The next half hour proceeded in total silence as the trail plunged across a slope of the taller conifers. Not even the wind stirred the branches above them. The forest floor was strewn with the ruddy remains of the cones that had spent all season growing high in the trees, but having been dismembered by squirrels feasting on the seeds.

Mairead paused to pick up an intact cone, still connected to a few bits of outer twig, apparently having been prematurely parted from its perch during a recent storm. She turned it over and over in her hand, the residual sap lending an iridescence that made the whole cone look like it had been carved from sanguine amber. She glanced up at Orla, who'd paused to look back over her shoulder. She shook her head slowly.

Mairead sighed heavily and let the cone fall softly back onto the duff. She knew the risks of bringing alien plant life back home. Plenty of places back home already had trouble with plants from one part of the world becoming noxious weeds after having been introduced somewhere else.

The trail crested a low rise, then descended again and the two made their way across a broad fell-field. A few of the rocks teetered under Mairead's feet, making her very glad Orla had chosen shoes with traction. The occasional glaucus fronds of rock ferns poked up from the crevices, their pearly-white sori just visible from certain angles. A few dozen paces below, part of a bleached skeleton lay across the rocks, a few ribs pointing skyward, having been picked clean some time before. Some kinds of scavengers were known to be aggressively territorial about their meals and Mairead wasn't sure she'd have wanted to have encountered any.

They paused to take in the sights which, surprisingly, weren't many. A large, steep-walled knoll stood downhill, the fell-field diverting around it like a steep roadbed. Stands of conifers obscured the view and gave the impression that the avalanche path ended roughly a rugby-field's length below them.

Plunging back into forest, Orla led Mairead on a pathless route through the trees. Several kinds of woodland plants, some familiar and others not, peppered the forest floor in various stages of seed or bloom. At length, they emerged into an expansive meadow. Mairead knew the place, at least at a distance. She'd seen its upper tracts from the valley far below.

As with the earlier clearing, the meadow was rimmed with urlaf and corn-lilies, a few scattered clumps of which grew on small hillocks, ringed by short sky-blue gentians. Other taller, lavender-blue gentians bloomed in great swaths across the meadow. Pink late-blooming onions and the stiff leaves of pitcher plants punctuated the meadow, growing most densely near the small stream that moved lazily through it.

A few solitary bright-red-needled conifers stood in a broken, meandering line up the meadow's center, interspersed with knee-high mountain spiraea. Orange-blue berries and yellow foliage of mountain-ash marked small, barely-visible pools. Seed stalks of orchids, shooting-star, marsh marigold, paintbrush, elephant-heads, and dozens of others Mairead didn't recognize, rose above the short grasses while those of lupine, penstemon, columbine, biscuitroot, brodiaea, poppy, and lotus stood in scattered clumps around drier, rockier outcroppings with late-blooming orange-flowered daisies along the seeps feeding the meadow.

Hummingbirds fed on the second flush of red-flowered honeysuckles, salmonberries, and late-blooming foxgloves and camas.

None of those plants were actually what Mairead called them in her own mind, of course. But she'd always found the superficial resemblances to Earth flora curiously striking.

The meadow reached upward into an orange haze of red and blue flowers and fruits to where it began at the base of a sparsely-vegetated slope. Two rugby-field-lengths below her, the meadow and its stream vanished, squeezed between two low ridges. Far beyond that, the broad plains of the River Norland lay beneath the autumn sun, the golden spires of High Norland City twinkling as distant yellow pinpricks. Despite their journey having been mostly uphill, they'd walked what felt to Mairead like ten miles and Orla had certainly set an aggressive pace.

Orla led Mairead across a dry-ish strip of ground to a rocky hillock across which lay a bleached log. Tattered bits of greenish bark still clung to its base where broken roots reached upward next to the hole left by its falling. She paused and surveyed the area. Nothing moved. Apparently satisfied, she propped her bow and its arrow against the log.

“Ya-Orla!” said Mairead. “Sheo...alainar!” This is...beautiful!

“Eh dar?” What's that? Orla asked, pointing at something behind Mairead.

Mairead turned to look. All appeared as it was when they'd entered the meadow. “Thukati minonblepu,” I don't see anything, she said at length.

“Oh,” said Orla lightly. “Lathonim,” my mistake.

Mairead turned back to Orla. A light blanket draped over three armspans of the log. Mairead peered at it. “Fen...raglash,” where...never mind.

Orla smiled knowingly and made an inviting gesture as she herself sat down. Mairead set the basket down between them and joined her godmother. After several hours of nonstop walking, sitting down felt ridiculously good. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back slightly, and moaned in pleasure as she might have done under the influence of a massage.

Mairead opened her eyes a few moments later and found, to her delight, that Orla had begun to unpack the basket. A small, but growing, selection of finger-food edibles sat on the basket's rigid lid, which rested across one end of it. Mairead grinned broadly. Then her stomach growled so loudly, she feared it might be audible clear across the meadow. She felt her cheeks flush. “Shuran,” sorry, she said.

Orla merely smiled.

Mairead picked up a pasty and bit into it. Inside was some sweet-and-savory meat, mixed with something that tasted like onion and bluebell-bulb. “Oh, ya-Orla, you shouldn't have,” she said once she'd swallowed. She tried to practice good table manners. Sometimes she'd forget, of course. But she felt she had to make up for her physical shortcomings somehow.

“Oh, non ilthuenoshil, ontos,” oh, it's no trouble, really, said Orla.

In addition to the meat pasty, Orla had prepared both bran and corn-esque muffins, roasted horse-chestnuts, juniper-berry and lurghan jams, mountain-ash and urlaf raisins from the previous season's harvest, pine-pear chutney, poppy-seed crescent rolls, three different flavors of jerked fish, venison pies, fresh raspberries, a selection of local fruits that had no corollary whatsoever to anything she'd seen on Earth, a large flask of yew vinegar, and a jug of sun-brewed herbal tea.

The two women sat and, between bites of food, continued the discussions that had been put on hold when they'd left the road. Orla continued to update Mairead on current events in High Norland in particular and Ingary in general. Orla asked Mairead for her opinions about it all. She shared those opinions, though she surprised herself in not only having them, but in actually caring.

“Flin,” you know, said Orla, once they'd finished their repast and sat there passing the vinegar back and forth, “si thushanlal migemoal, qerl tasimoyaf inron mielemis,” if I ever have a daughter, I hope she's just like you.

Mairead laughed ruefully. “Right,” she said dubiously, returning to English, which again went uncorrected.

“Lein, ontos,” no, really.

“Even with my extensive...litany...of medical problems?”

“Thufuthi lehighis sinonarfim,” you don't have any medical problems.

Mairead nearly choked on her vinegar. “Ya-Orla,” she scolded, “that's absurd.”

Orla cocked her head. “Leinti. Thudim retimashlert kathl,” no it isn't. There's nothing wrong with you at all.

Mairead raised her eyebrow. “Seriously? You know as well as I do what's wrong with me.”

“Thulud sawu fosienu,” name one thing.

Mairead rolled her eyes. The conversation was already verging on the preposterous. “Starting with this persistent bladder infection.”

“Thukhaint aslonan sinonarfim,” you don't have a bladder infection.

“What? But there's blood in my...”

“Leinti,” no there isn't.

“But it's _pink_!”

“Thullir dor tipothem,” it's supposed to be that color.

“What?!”

“Thuwirkhordi asdraoihta sikonde deimlo peng, sah?” You know how you can always feel when magic is being done?

Mairead blinked. “Erm...yes. But what's that to do with the color of my...my...” She couldn't quite say it. What was it about teenage hormones that made everything embarrassing?

“Thudeimloash wirkhord thukudwilionim we non mipresim sifilas...san dil, ai?” You know how it feels when I'm using my own camouflage field and then when I'm not...like right now, yes?

Mairead did know. She could tell. Not only could see her as she really was, but she'd always been able to feel when magic was being done. At least, she could after Orla had taught her how to recognize it many years before. “Ai.”

Orla reached over and touched Mairead on the forehead.

Mairead blinked, her vision abruptly clear. She'd always had perfect eye-sight, but everything suddenly seemed so much more clear, colors deeper and more vibrant, as though she could see a wider range of the electromagnetic spectrum. Even the broad swath of Ingary's planetary ring stretching across the sky like a shimmery band looked more energetic, as though it pulsed with its own life force, perceptible even from so many miles away.

“Sitendeimka dil?” Orla asked. How do you feel now?

“Erm...” Mairead wasn't quite sure. She'd felt...something...like a weight falling away, or perhaps as though she'd just cast off a wet blanket she'd been holding around herself. “For one thing, everything looks...brighter...more vivid. And I feel...I don't know...unrestricted.”

Orla smiled knowingly. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “Ikamenka?” What else?

She considered it for a moment, then tensed slightly. “The magic's gone!”

“Sahka?” Is it?

“Yes!” Mairead's irritation was rapidly rising. “There's always been a low-level...erm...feeling. Like that camouflage field of yours. But close to my own skin. And now...nothing. You told me you'd teach me to use magic and now it's gone! What did you do to me?” she demanded.

“Il natapu khir,” it's a long story.

“A long story? Unbelievable.” She threw her arms held wide in a gesture of impatience, then froze.

She felt an unfamiliar pressure against her lower triceps. Her eyes popped open so far, she might otherwise fear them falling out if she weren't so otherwise distracted. A sudden feeling of alarm, verging on terror, spiked inside her. She closed her eyes, gently and hesitantly reached over and probed at her own elbow, then froze again. The alarm quickly escalated into panic as she brushed the back of one calf with the opposite foot, and felt something sharp. Her breathing sharply escalated. Then she screamed, a high, shrill sound that would surely have set off an avalanche were it winter.

She sat down hard on the log, breathing hard and whimpering. Her head felt light and her vision swam, both of which grew worse as she continued to hyperventilate. She was caught in the grip of a full-blown panic attack and it seemed there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Orla's face floated in front of her own and she felt the older woman gently take her hands. “Ya-Marido? Fositalagrinath,” ground and center, she said calmly.

Mairead forced herself to calm down, willing her heart and breathing to slow as Orla had taught her to do before musical performances. “Lein,” no, she said. “Lein, lein, lein. Nonfedir,” that's impossible.

“Leh?” why.

“Llegit...llegit...” because, “...minonfilas!” I don't know!

Orla smiled. “What have I always taught you,” she said, returning to English, “to do when confronted with something that doesn't seem to make sense?”

Mairead forced herself to focus. “Follow...follow the evidence,” she said at length.

“Ai. And where does the evidence lead you?”

Mairead's mind went blank. Botheration! Why did that always happen when she needed it? Orla didn't say anything, just crouched there in front of Mairead, waiting patiently. Mairead's mind presently loosened up and all the details of her life lined up one by one. As she considered each detail, it somehow all made sense.

Her long list of food intolerances, most of which made her ill in a variety of highly unpleasant ways and was a continual source of consternation, was the same as Orla's. She never had to worry about what she ate while in High Norland, yet always had to scrutinize every ingredient of every dish back in Ireland. She could eat things, some of which she'd been told were poisonous, that no one else in her family could, without being sick. Some of those things she'd seen served at the Fallon table and from the picnic basket she and Orla had just shared. Her culinary tastes were, as her brother Noel was so fond of saying, like to rival those of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and wholly divergent from those of the rest of her family. There was her love of vinegar as a beverage, something she shared with every Ingarian she'd ever met. She still didn't understand what people meant by chili peppers being “hot.” There was the matter of alcohol's extreme toxicity...and the effects of athalas...and her extreme susceptibility to the common cold.

Her vitals were off. Her blood...and other fluids...were the wrong color. Her blood was also, to quote the doctor to whom her mum had taken her a few times, un-typeable. Her classmates had laughed at her during science class when the hair she'd plucked from her own had, when viewed beneath a microscope, born a conspicuously non-human structure. She was extremely susceptible to altitude-induced hypoxia. Her hearing and visual ranges were slightly off.

It explained why her skin always broke out each of the few times she'd tried wearing makeup. It explained her persistent problems with shoes. It explained her strange fingerprint patterns. It explained why Orla had so adamantly insisted that she never be vaccinated against anything to the point of having forged that part of her medical records. It explained why she'd been the only one in town unaffected by any of the several salmonella outbreaks over the past decade and a half. It also explained why Orla had, over the years, gone to such trouble to teach her everything she could about Ingary, High Norland, and the Arghims in particular.

The more she considered it, the more glaring the inconsistencies became and the more she considered those, the more they dropped into line with her newest revelation. Last, but not least, there was the equally inescapable fact that she bore very little resemblance to any of the other Nesbitts, yet looked almost exactly like the photo of Orla's late friend Melano Arghim as to be downright eerie.

Mairead's jaw dropped like a rock. She'd followed the evidence and it was incontrovertible. “Lem...lem...” but, but, “ _pos_... _leh_?” how...why?

Mairead--Marido...botheration, that was already confusing and she had a powerful suspicion that the disorientation would only intensify before improving...assuming she ever _did_ adapt—listened raptly as Orla told the story of how her birth mother had died and how Orla had, unbeknownst to anyone else, given Marido, as a baby, to the Nesbitts in the place of their own sickly baby Mairead.

Once Orla had finished, Marido sat there, staring off into space for what felt like an eternity. “Lein,” no, she said finally. “Lein, lein, lein!” She felt her panic returning, rising up within her like a geyser, pushed by fear, anger, hurt, and a whole host of other confusing emotions. “Il nonfedir!” that's impossible, she screamed, yet knowing at the same time how wrong she was about that. But she didn't care.

“Ya-Marido...” Orla began.

“Lein!” Marido yelled. She leaped to her feet. “Get away from me!” She turned to stalk off down the edge of the meadow.

“Ya-Marido?” Orla called after her. “Fosifanoth!” Wait!

“Lein!” She whirled around. “I hate you!” She spun back.

“Ya-Marido!”

“Leave me alone!” yelled Marido without looking over her shoulder. She stomped across the edge of the clearing, barely conscious of the squishy ground splurching beneath her feet or the corn-lilies brushing against her right arm.

A sudden growl yanked her out of her fume. The hurt and anger were instantly replaced with fear that abruptly rose to sheer terror along with the large, reptilian head that poked out between the corn-lilies. Marido screamed and leaped back, tripping on a rock and sitting down hard in a tangle of spiraea.

Three scaly bodies slowly pushed their way into the meadow. Marido whimpered, and struggled frantically to free herself of the shrubbery, but the bones protruding from her elbows kept catching on the small branches. She screeched in anger, fear, and frustration. Her gaze fixed on the vacant eyes peering at her like large black marbles. The lead animal dropped its jaw, revealing rows of dagger-sharp teeth. It leaned back slightly and began to roar.

Marido added her own shrill scream of terror. She watched as the animal's head lurched slightly sideways, a double splash of blood splurting from each side. It twitched, then toppled forward. Marido barely freed herself in time to avoid being flattened. The other two heads swiveled upmeadow. One roared in fury. A blur of something flickered into its mouth. Then another blur stuck into its neck, resolving into a set of arrow fletching as blood sprayed out around it. That animal, too, collapsed, twitching in the muck. The third spun 'round, its long, stiff tail whooshing through the air over Marido's head, then plunged back into the forest.

Marido stared after it, drawing breath after ragged breath as adrenaline continued to course through her veins. Motion to her right became Ora, sprinting from hummock to hummock.

“Ya-Marido!” she said as she came to rest, still holding an arrow to her bowstring. “Sishobuka?” are you alright?

Marido nodded, then collapsed as tears welled up in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. Long, deep sobs overwhelmed her. She was barely aware of Orla helping her to her feet and along the edge of the meadow. The entire pathless return trip was a blur of branches, foliage, water, intermittent undergrowth and forest duff. She felt scratched up, wrung out, and utterly exhausted by the time she staggered through the palisade gate at the edge of Orla's estate. Or was it her own? The haze of physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion had completely drained her in every conceivable way and probably a few she wouldn't have conceived.  
She was barely aware of the lamp light inside Orla's house and the warm sponge bath her godmother gave her before putting her to bed. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

* * *

High Norland City, Kingdom of High Norland, Ingary, Lirosh System  
9 Sheram, 36 King Adolphus X, 1270 Fourth Age

Marido Arghim awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in her bed. The sheet and light blanket slipped away, but she barely noticed the slightly chilly air that pricked at her skin through her thin chemise. She'd had the most alarming dream. Or had it been real? She wasn't sure.

She moved her legs toward the edge of the bed, but froze when she felt something drag against the bottom sheet. That same something also tugged at the flesh of her calves. Her pulse quickened. “Bugger,” she whispered. Ground and center, she told herself, ground and center. She hesitantly reached over and touched one elbow.

“Bugger!” she muttered. No, it had most certainly not been a dream.

Marido turned her legs sideways and exited the covers shins first. She stood up, padded across the dimly-lit room and threw open the draperies. Morning sunlight spilled into the room, pleasantly warming her skin. She returned to the dresser near her bed and peered at herself in the mirror.

Her face looked the same as it always had. Except that her eyes were just a little too big. No, she corrected herself, they were merely a little bigger than she'd grown accustomed to perceiving them. And the blue of her irises was more vibrant, but with a subtle lavender tint. She opened her mouth and pushed her upper lip away from her jaw. As she suspected, her canine teeth were several millimeters longer than the rest of them.

“Bugger,” she grunted.

She released her face, let her arms fall to her sides, feeling the pressure her lenomae exerted on her lower triceps, and exhaled heavily. She stepped back from the mirror, then stripped off her underclothes. She'd seen drawings of Ingarian anatomy. In fact, there was a rather good book on the subject downstairs in the library. Now that she was looking at herself in all of her Ingarian glory, it occurred to her that, despite a few details, she really didn't look all that different.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been standing there, staring at herself in the mirror, when a soft knock came at the door. She nearly jumped.

“Ya-Marido?” came Orla's voice.

“Ai,” she replied darkly. She was still not amused...not one bloody bit.

“Thufeiratha wosithrehanka?” Would you like breakfast? Orla asked.

Marido's stomach growled. At least _something_ about her was human...maybe.

“Mitiekhuen,” I heard that, Orla teased.

Marido sighed, then pulled her clothes back on, padded over to the door, opened it a crack, and peered at Orla.

“Sishobuka?” are you alright, Orla asked, a note of concern in her voice.

Marido sighed again and opened the door. “It's just...” She wasn't sure what she thought or how she felt—not really. A jumble of emotions welled up within her and she simply leaned against Orla and began to cry.

The other woman put her arms around her. She didn't try to shush her, just held her until she calmed down on her own.

At length, Marido's tears wound down to a sniffle and she pulled back from Orla. “I...I think I might like that breakfast now,” she said. Orla smiled and held out a handkerchief. How was it she always seemed to have any needed object so near at hand? Marido kept the question to herself, accepting the handkerchief, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

Minutes later, Marido stood in the main living area, gazing at the photographs on the mantle as she'd done scores of times before, while Orla worked on breakfast. Marido felt a little guilty about not helping, but Orla hadn't pushed.

“Ya-Marido?” said Orla after a time.

Marido's gaze remained riveted to the photograph of her birth parents. “That's not just what you call me here, is it?” It was a statement. “That's my name...my real name...the name she gave me...isn't it?”

“Ai.”

“I'm actually Marido Arghim...out of Melano by Loran.” It sounded strange to say that. But somehow, voicing it made the whole thing feel less surreal. She looked over at Orla and frowned. “What happened? I mean, what really happened? You've been...rather terse about it.”

“You didn't ask.” Orla turned around and walked back into the kitchen.

“It wasn't important,” said Marido darkly as she stepped over to the dining table, “until yesterday.” She sat down, and rested her elbows on its purple hardwood surface. She jumped slightly when her lenomae touched the table, stopping her arms sooner than she'd expected. She growled in frustration and let her foreamrs drop forcefully with a dull thud, the altered pivot points pulling her body slightly forward.

Orla looked up. “Sishobuka?” are you alright?

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Marido asked.

“Because I care.” Orla seemed to have gone back to English for the time being. Marido was glad of that. It was something familiar and she desperately needed that at the moment.

“And is that why you also never told me that I'm an alien?” Marido growled.

Orla softened even more. Marido could tell that, but she was still more than a little worked up over the whole thing.

“It was...complicated,” said Orla.

“So you've said. And I get that...I think. But you still should have told me!”

“It would have been far too traumatic for you when...”

“More traumatic?” Marido interrupted. “More traumatic than what? Thinking all this time that I'm weird? Bemoaning all my defects that, as it turns out, aren't really defects at all?”

“How would you have felt had I told you at, say, age eight?”

“As opposed to, what...now? All my life, I've wanted nothing more than to be a normal girl. Was that too much to ask?”

“Oh, but you _are_ a normal girl.”

“A normal _alien_ girl!”

Orla tipped her head back and laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, ya-Marido, you're such a treasure. You do realize that normal is highly relative, don't you?” At Marido's furrowed eyebrow, Orla continued. “You remember all those people we've met out in the country and in the city?”

Marido nodded.

“Not one of them thinks they're anything _but_ normal. You see, they only know one way to be and that's Ingarian. Many of us know about the existence of Earth, but very few of us have actually been there and even fewer humans have ever visited Ingary. One can only be weird if one is sufficiently deviant from one's _own_ kind.”

“But I was raised by humans. I still think of myself as Irish, even though I'm not. What does that make me?”

“It makes you unique...a bridge between people.”

“It makes me weird is what it makes me. I was weird before and now that I know I'm normal, I'm _still_ weird. It's not fair!” Marido crossed her arms over her chest in a particularly pouty way. She knew it was highly juvenile, but she just didn't care.

Orla sighed. “You're right. It's _not_ fair. None of it is. You should have grown up knowing your own parents personally, not from someone like me telling you about them. You should have known them as people, not as strangers in a photograph. You should have lived your own heritage, not just stepped into and out of it from time to time. And little Mairead should have lived and grown up to be a healthy, happy Irishwoman. But instead, you took her place and her parents took the place of yours.”

“And what am I supposed to tell them when I get back? Hi, I'm home, oh, by the way, I'm really an alien?” She froze briefly. “I...I _am_ going back...aren't I?”

“All of that's entirely up to you. This house, the land surrounding it, and everything in it belong to you. Or, it will once you reach your majority. But it's your home...or what should have been your home. It still can be, if you want it.”

Marido looked around the room. She felt like she was seeing it all for the first time. The bare, finely-finished hardwood planks on walls and ceiling, the slightly lighter-hued whole-log conifer beams, the subtle colors of the décor, the muted silvery flecks in the tiles of the stove and kitchen, the sweeping gardens tumbling over the slope below the house. It was beautiful! Was it really all hers?

Marido glanced over at the lower table next to the sofa. The closed violin case still sat there. “That was hers, too, wasn't it?”

“Ai,” Orla said sadly. “Your mother was the greatest violinist in High Norland, possibly on all of Ingary.”

“So you've said.” That was somewhat of an understatement. In fact, she'd heard quite a few people make mention of the “great Melano Arghim” and how she'd been “cut down in her prime.”

“Nor have I been exaggerating. And your mother could have been the greatest violinist on two worlds and she wouldn't have had to use any magic. I see the same greatness in you.

“You have a decision to make, ya-Marido. You can return to Ireland, or you can remain here. You must also decide what to do with what you now know.”

Marido considered her godmother's words for what felt like forever. If she stayed in High Norland, her true home, what would her family...no, the people she'd always thought were her family...think? They'd think she'd disappeared, of course. They'd be terrified for her. And then, when she'd eventually been declared officially dead, they'd mourn her. It would break their hearts. She couldn't bear that.

If she returned to Ireland, she'd have to do so either as an Ingarian, or resume her disguise as an Irishwoman. If she chose that latter, she'd be living a lie. But if she chose the former...well, she didn't know quite how her adopted family would react, but she knew enough about the purported reputation of Area-51 to know what they'd do to her. And that would be just as bad as simply disappearing. The Nesbitts loved her as though she were their own flesh and blood and she loved them in return. They were family—not blood-family, of course, but family nonetheless.

“You need not decide now,” Orla continued. “You have...the rest of your holday.”

Marido exhaled heavily. “Some holiday,” she said. “How many people do you know go on holiday and come back as aliens?”

Orla laughed. “Oh, ya-Marido. I told you I'd love for any daughter of mine to be just like you and I meant it. I still do.”

Marido smiled. “It's still weird.”

* * *

High Norland City, Kingdom of High Norland, Ingary, Lirosh System  
11 Sheram, 36 King Adolphus X, 1270 Fourth Age

“Lein, ya-Marido. Il naanalsgi. Fopali!” No, Marido. It's a dance. Again!

Orla watched Marido return to a ready stance. Her eyes burned with a focused fire the likes of which Orla hadn't expected to see for several more years yet.

The girl was still an emotional basket-case, especially after she'd realized she could never become romantically involved with a human. Marido's extreme agitation wasn't surprising, though. After all, Orla had rather abruptly sprung the whole, “oh, by the way, you're not really human” thing on her.

She'd contemplated several different scenarios and several versions of each. In fact, she'd been agonizing over the whole thing for years. In the end, Orla had decided that there was really no good way to break the news to Marido and that the best...or, rather, the least worst...way was the most evidence-heavy. Things tended to be harder to ignore when they were staring one in the face—not impossible, of course, just a lot harder.

Orla was still unsure she hadn't miscalculated. All that evidence was a lot for a fourteen-year-old girl to handle, especially evidence of something so important and of such magnitude. That was part of the reason Orla had decided to teach Marido some more advanced combat, techniques that went beyond the self-defense she'd been teaching her for years. More advanced teaching required more advanced focus and discipline, both of which would be of tremendous benefit to Marido.

Fortunately, she seemed to be handling it all fairly well. Which was to say roughly halfway between destroying everything in sight under multiple fits of unbridled, pain-driven, hormone-amplified, rage on the one end, and utterly calm and detached acceptance on the other.

Orla attacked again, the hardwood practice blade whistling through the air. Marido parried, bounced backward on the balls of her feet, then counterattacked. Orla barely avoided it. With a swift, economical movement, she shed Marido's blade off her own, then spun, bringing her elbow up in an arc and cracking it against Marido's wrist.

Marido yelped, dropped her blade, and leaped back, rubbing her wrist. “Siklipoen!” You cheated!

Orla smiled slightly. “Naekhthras tinontroidal deklais. Nish llosi. Thusorais arfad sithar presim.” An enemy will not fight fairly. Neither should you. You must use your entire body.

“Lem thusoraim afrad mipresimnel,” Marido protested. But I was using my entire body.

“Lein. Nasorais nashulmis. Nakledom thutemait. Fopali!” No. Your body is your weapon. The sword is part of it. Again!

Marido picked up her sword and visibly grounded-and-centered. She was learning quickly, especially after Orla had explained that combat was a dance, with one movement flowing smoothly and seamlessly into the next.

Around and around they went. One hour stretched into two until both Orla and Marido stood there panting, the sweat pouring off their bodies.

“Sigwellaem. Lem qerl goler regohi mishopa,” said Orla. You're improving. But I think that's enough for today. “Refeilsho siwilthka?” Are you ready for dinner?

Marido nodded vigorously and Orla laughed.

“Ya-Marido, nasishanlal ontos qerl minararfimen,” Orla laughed. You truly are the daughter I never had.

As the pair walked back toward the Arghim home, Orla pondered her plans for the days ahead. She intended to teach Marido how to do magic as well. The girl would need to know how to raise, lower, and maintain her own camouflage field at the very least. That was not to mention the several other highly useful, yet minor, reliable, and relatively safe spells every magic-wielder should know.

* * *

Uplands south of Norland Valley, Kingdom of High Norland, Ingary, Lirosh System  
23 Sheram, 36 King Adolphus X, 1270 Fourth Age

Marido Arghim poked her head out from between a pair of corn-lily stalks and paused. The broad montane meadow spread out before her, looking very much like it had the day she'd discovered her true identity. The vegetation had gone over a little more, the fall colors brighter, the grasses and forbs a little yellower, and some of the flowers had faded, the plants going to work on setting seed.

Not only was her family not really her family, in the interim she'd learned that her birthday wasn't really her birthday either. Her real birthday was the twenty-third day of the month of Sheram. So she supposed it was fitting that she'd decided to undertake her little outing.

Except that her outing wasn't so little. At the very least, it stood to be highly unpleasant, perhaps even dangerous. But her whole visit to Ingary, her homeworld, had turned into an episode of rebirth. And births tended to be highly messy affairs anyhow.

Glancing about her, and satisfied that she was alone, she stepped out into the noticeably less gushy meadow. It was amazing how quickly things could dry out in the fall and how quickly the uplands could drain. A slate-grey sky made everything look a little washed-out, much more so than what she remembered growing up in drizzly Ireland. On the other hand, she'd been seeing those skies as though through a mirror darkly.

She kept her recurve bow at the ready, willing her right hand to relax around the nocked end of a broad-headed arrow. It wouldn't do to have her fingers cramp up on her should she have to call upon them at a moment's notice. She still wasn't very good with the weapon anyway. There were so many things she wanted to practice—violin, magic, archery, armed and hand-to-hand combat—and only so many hours in a day.

She gazed down the meadow, took a few steps, then paused to listen again. The countryside had been so dead still the past few hours as to be downright eerie. She supposed it to be a combination of the oppressive mood imposed by the autumn weather and the coming of winter. While most of the region's wildlife should have moved down to lower elevations, there should also still be some about. She sighed. There was still much about Ingarian fauna she didn't know. For that matter, though, there was an awful lot about Earth fauna she didn't know either.

Marido scanned the sky above her. She'd always missed the blue. Cloudy days were all too common in Ireland. But on Ingary, clouds also obscured the shimmering planetary ring visible as a sparkling band that stretched from horizon to horizon. She returned her attention to her surroundings and trudged off down the meadow.

The spot where she and Orla had been eating lunch that day, the day she'd been confronted with that terrible truth, looked the same. She trailed her fingers across the rough-smooth surface of the log, then sat down. The wood creaked slightly.

She breathed in, held her breath as long as she could bear it, then let it back out again. She remembered how horrifying her revelation had been at the time. She'd been just as surprised at how quickly she'd adjusted to the idea of being non-human. She supposed a lifetime of being wildly different from anyone else and living with a myriad of unexplainable health anomalies had primed her for it.

She sat there, musing on the past couple of weeks. She'd been shaken to the core, but felt stronger somehow. She no longer felt nearly so out of place. She knew what she was and that realization gave her both peace and strength. After a while, she felt something prick at the back of her mind. It felt like the same nagging feeling she often had on those occasions when she'd been sure she'd be in trouble for returning home late, or not being prepared, or not having practiced her violin, or not having done something else she'd blown off for one reason or another.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there. The passage of time was hard to gauge without the sun's progress as a guide. She sighed. She may as well get on with it anyway. She stood up, stepped off the rocky hump, and trudged down the meadow. After a couple of minutes, she came to the spot where she'd been attacked by the large, velociraptor things.

Both animals still lay there. A fortnight's worth of scavenging and heat had been hard at work on their corpses.

She'd always been told not to breathe through her mouth and that doing so would only make the smell worse. She'd never noticed much difference. Evidently that was yet another thing people did differently on her planet. The very thought that she really could make that statement with a straight face made her smile despite the stench.

She really wasn't surprised that a pair of animals could rot so much in so short a time. She'd seen how quickly a leg of lamb could spoil and she'd briefly worn a welt on her behind because of it. Each of the carcases had wounds all over it. Most of them looked like they'd been made by scavengers, though a large, jagged hole in each abdomen suggested the same sort of thing she'd sometimes seen in dead sheep or road-killed hedgehogs.

Aside from the flies and their larvae, nothing else moved. Speaking of scavengers, where were they anyhow, when there was lunch to be had?

Marido's stomach twinged slightly at the idea of a rotting carcass being lunch. She was very glad _that_ wasn't part of typical Ingarian taste. She stepped around one of the animals and stopped between one clawed foot and its head. Even in death, it looked ferocious.

She steeled herself, took her hand from her bowstring and drew the large knife at her waist. She wasn't really sure why she was doing what she was doing. After all, she hadn't killed them. So she didn't necessarily hold the right to claim teeth and claws. That honor should go to Orla. Yet she'd relinquished it at the moment when she should have claimed it. Marido supposed her learned human sensibilities were warring with her innate Ingarian ones. While a lot of things made a lot more sense after her revelation, she was still so confused in other ways. Orla had reassured her that it would all iron itself out eventually and she hoped that was true.

She paused, the blade less than halfway out of its sheath. Something didn't feel right. She didn't know what it was or how she felt it. No, on second thought, she did know how: magic. She made a mental note to ask Orla about it.

Something moved in her peripheral vision. At first, she wasn't sure she'd seen it. She still wasn't quite used to the wider field of view her Ingarian eyes gave her. She froze, then forced herself to slowly turn her head. A pair of large, reptilian eyes met her gaze. Yellow-rimmed and unblinking, they seemed to bore right into her. She glared back, carefully releasing her knife and tightening her grip on her bow.

Marido felt her pulse rise as the rest of a large, scaly body shouldered its way through the corn-lilies. It tipped its snout up slightly and sniffed, the sound carrying ominously across the all-too-short distance between them. It lowered its head slightly and growled. That wasn't a good sign. Her pulse quickened even more until her blood pounded in her ears. Without warning, the animal lunged at her, a warbling roar shattering the silence.

In one move, she grabbed her bow string, drew to her ear, and released. Her arrow was a mere blur as it raced across the quickly-narrowing distance. The dull smack of her arrow hitting home blended with the thrum of the vibrating string.

The roar rose in pitch, carrying with it now both anger and pain as well as unbridled aggression. What followed seemed to happen both all at once and over an eternity.

Marido tossed her bow heedlessly aside and drew the blade. She held it straight out in front of her with both arms, half an arm's length of razor-sharp Zanzib steel between her and the half-ton of muscle, bone, and fury still hurtling toward her. She squeezed her eyes shut, turned her head, and moved to duck.

A moment later, an impact like nothing she'd ever felt hit her. The force of it jarred every bone and joint from her fingers to her shoulder blades and threatened to tear her arms straight out of her back. She felt the knife pierce the animal's hide, even as she tipped backward. She gasped as the animal drove her toward the ground.

A deafening bellow of anguished fury erupted from the animal's throat. Its momentum wrenched Marido's arms in an up-and-back sweeping motion and dragged her backward. A sharp, white-hot pain in her abdomen robbed what little breath she had. Then something warm, thick, and wet poured over her, followed by something heavy and slimy. Still, she kept her eyes tight closed and her hands in a death grip around her blade's hilt, and hung on for dear life.

The blade abruptly lodged somewhere in the animal's body, nearly ripping the hilt from her hands. Then everything ground to a halt. A moment later, a suffocating weight fell down on top of her, enveloping her whole body in something warm, wet and....

Her eyes flew open to darkness as she realized, to her horror, where she was and what had just happened. She began to panic, her attempts to draw breath met with damp fluid. Why, oh, why, had she not stayed at home? Suffocating in the abdominal cavity of what was essentially a dinosaur was _not_ how she wanted to die! How would Orla explain _that_ to the Nesbitts? No, that wasn't an option.

Marido held what breath she had left and thrust both hands over her head. That by itself was no easy task. Bother her lenomae! The searing pain in her left side nearly made her gag even more than being surrounded by blood and guts. She felt cool air on her hands and frantically groped for something to grab. At first, all she felt was more air, grass, and muck. She finally settled on the animal's hide.

She grabbed scaly skin as best as she could and pulled. Her hands slipped a few times. She felt herself move, ever so slightly. At that rate, she'd run out of oxygen and pass out! She dug her fingernails into its flank, grabbed onto it as to dear life, and heaved with everything she had. An abrupt lurch forward brought with it a sucking sound more felt than heard.

Her head popped out into cool air and she dragged in a ragged breath of not-so-fresh air...then another and another. What had been the pungent, peaty odor of anaerobic, decaying meadow muck and fetid, rotting flesh had transformed into a fragrance sweeter than any fruit or flower. Her starved lungs burned as they strained against the weight still half-pinning her to the ground.

Marido lay there until her head stopped swimming. Her left knee bumped against something hard. She cringed as she reached back under the animal. She didn't want to think about just where her blade had lodged. Based on how much wiggling she had to do to free it, it was probably bone. Her arms were both completely red once she withdrew them back into the open air. She stabbed the blade into the hide near her, then finished extracting herself.

She was wet all over. She staggered to her feet and looked down at herself. Just as she expected, she was completely covered with blood and peritoneal fluid. What surprised her was that, instead of making her sick, the sight, scent, and feeling of it all filled her with a sense of power.

She reached over to her left side and yelped. Pulling up her sodden dress, she examined her skin, which was just as blood-soaked as her clothing. A large, nasty-looking gash split her flesh from just above her pelvis to just below her rib cage. She couldn't tell how much of the blood was hers, but she was quite sure she knew what had sliced her so neatly open. She grinned through the pain and mess. She'd survived, killed her foe, and emerged with what would become a battle scar. How'd that go...pain heals, men dig scars, glory lasts forever!

Marido let her dress fall back around her and quickly retrieved the knife. She lifted one of the animal's heavy feet and cut off three of its claws. She felt herself slowly coming down off of her adrenaline high and with it, the rise of the pain in her side that made her movements increasingly difficult and painful.

Heaving herself out of the shallow depression that had saved her life, she sliced into the beast's neck, not stopping until it lay loose at her feet. She stood, feeling the raw power of it all flowing through her. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline, maybe it was something else. She threw her arms wide, ignoring the spike of pain in her side, lifted the knife, claws, and head into the air, tipped her head back, and bellowed in triumph.

* * *

Twilight had nearly failed. Orla Fallon paced back and forth in front of the palisade gate to the Arghim Estate. A pair of torches burned with magical fire on each side of the arch, casting a yellow light that held the night at bay.  
Her day had started normally enough, but had taken a turn when Marido had turned up missing. She'd asked several friends in town, talked to the local farmers and ranchers, and had even scoured the countryside herself. There'd been no sign of the girl. That in itself had been both disturbing and infuriating. How could a fourteen-year-old simply disappear like that? Orla eventually suspected kidnapping, but by then, wagon and foot traffic on the road to the city had obscured any physical tracks.

As the day had worn on, Orla had finally resorted to simply keeping watch. The more she waited and the more she watched, the more worried and frustrated she became. She'd been through that sort of thing before with her own late husband and daughter, waiting for word, waiting for the end, waiting for something to change and so put an end to the mental and emotional torture.

Even worse, she could imagine any number of things that could have befallen Marido. The girl's death would be very hard on Orla and would destroy the entire Nesbitt family. The more Orla waited, the more her imagination conjured up new horrors. She loathed it. When—and if—Marido ever finally returned, Orla might strangle the girl with her own two hands. She'd stay up all night if need be.

The sound of footsteps on gravel floated out of the darkness. Orla stopped and listened. The sound grew inexorably closer. If its owner was bound for Nigh Norland City, they were sure to be disappointed. The city gates always closed at night. It was more of a tradition than anything, another artifact of the violent and unstable yesteryears.

Orla sighed. Risky though it was, she may as well invite the traveler to stay in exchange for doing a few of the tasks on her never-ending to-do list. She was just about to call out when the footsteps changed direction and headed right for her. They bore an odd cadence, as though the person were injured, or carrying something heavy...possibly both.

Orla stood her ground in the middle of the drive, using a stance intended to strike a balance between welcoming and forceful. She placed a little tension on the string of her recurve bow, then grounded-and-centered and waited for the footsteps' owner to enter the circle of firelight.

Slowly, a dark, person-shaped shadow resolved from the gloom. He—Orla presumed it was a he, given the inherent dangers of traveling at night, dangers precious few women were willing to risk—was dark all over. Orla's first impression was that they simply wore all black. Then she noticed a strange sheen and dark, nearly black exposed skin. That meant he must be from Zanzib, or perhaps even further south. He seemed only to be carrying a bow and arrows slung across the back, a large, unsheathed blade in one hand, and something large and lumpy in the other. It was all quite curious.

“Nal-dulsho, ya-diloni,” good evening, stranger. It was generally customary, at least in High Norland and is neighbors, for such a traveler to then identify himself and his purpose. The reply came perfectly, but in a voice Orla knew all too well.

“Mi-Marido re-Arghim, as-Melano, Loran-rin!” I am Marido Arghim, out of Melano, by Loran! “Toiklonim miarathis,” I return to my home.

Orla nearly dropped her bow. Never had she heard Marido speak with such conviction. And what in the worlds had the girl painted on herself? Or had she been swimming in it? Whatever it was, it completely covered her from head to toe. “Eh tisitharlonka? Mistenufen kitan!” What happened to you? I was worried sick!

Marido stopped two paces in front of Orla. Their eyes locked, and Orla could see a reckless, raging fury behind them. The girl held up the bundle of whatever it was that she'd tucked beneath her left arm. “Thudar miisgal miokhilen,” I did what I had to do.

“Eh daka?” What is that, asked Orla, peering at what Marido held.

The girl said nothing.

At first, Orla wasn't sure what her goddaughter held. Then the shapes jumped out of the darkness, resolving themselves. The realization hit her like a brick. “Da...oh, ya-Marido, sinonen!” Is that...oh, Marido, you didn't!

“Ai, mien,” yes, I did.

Orla suddenly realized what it was that coated Marido and was very glad she hadn't eaten much that day. As it was, she had to will her stomach to calm. “Leh?” Why?

“Llegit,” because.

“Leh llegit?” Because why?

Marido, though a full head shorter than Orla, held the bearing of the greatest of warriors. “Timiallapen,” it tasked me. “Timiallapen, we mitiglakhnaen!” It tasked me, and I took it!

Orla exhaled heavily. Wordlessly, she motioned the girl—no...young woman--toward the gate and followed her.

* * *

Loughmoe, Ireland  
May 8, 1993

Kathleen Nesbitt looked up from her lesson plan. Her last student of the day had gone home not five minutes before. Life as a music teacher never really went on hold, not even when the local schools went on holiday. The cuckoo clock sounded the hour. That meant her daughter and Orla should be returning from Scotland at any time.

No sooner had she formed the thought, than the front door opened. Her friend really did have impeccable timing. How did she do it? Kathleen stood up and went to greet the two.

She immediately noticed that there seemed to be something a bit different about her daughter. Mairead looked the same, of course. But something about her bearing had changed and it wasn't subtle. She supposed she'd find out during her “debriefing,” as Noel was fond of saying.

“So, how was Scotland?” Kathleen asked as she gently hugged her daughter.

“It was...interesting,” said Mairead.

Kathleen resisted the urge to sigh. Was she going to have to pry information out of her daughter again? She reminded herself that Mairead was still a teenager and would be so for a few more years. Besides, she had it on good authority that she herself was exactly the same way at that age.

“And hug me like you mean it,” Mairead added.

There was something forceful in Mairead's voice that gave Kathleen a bit of pause. “Pardon?” she said, pulling back slightly to look into the girl's eyes.

“You're not going to break me,” said Mairead firmly.

“I know, dear. But...”

“But what? I said, hug me like you mean it.” Mairead sounded insistent.

Kathleen cocked her head slightly. “Are you being cheeky with me, young lady?”

Mairead shook her head slightly. “Please?” she said sweetly.

Kathleen felt her heart melt. How she and John ever managed to avoid spoiling their fragile daughter was beyond her. Her husband always said their daughter was strong in spirit, even if weak in body. Yet something continued to nag at the edge of Kathleen's mind, something that told her Mairead might not be so weak in body as the rest of the family believed. Kathleen resumed the hug.

“Harder,” said Mairead. “Harder,” she repeated. “More.” After a few moments, “Keep going, Mum.”

“When shall I stop?”

“When I can't breathe. Now, hug me!”

The way Mairead said that last made Kathleen chuckle in a tittery sort of way. She complied. It wasn't that she didn't want to hug her daughter. On the contrary, she always had to hold back. She knew it was irrational and certainly a lingering reaction to the girl's near-death experience during the first week of her life. Kathleen hadn't ever been able to shake that and it had rubbed off on the rest of the family.

John had taken the incident particularly hard and his own lingering fears had further compounded everyone else's protective tendencies. But Mairead seemed to have had enough. Kathleen wondered again what had happened in Scotland.

“That feels _so_ good!” Mairead squeaked.

Hugging her daughter so tightly felt good to Kathleen, too. She realized at that moment how much she'd missed it herself. Mairead's return hug was strong, too, and Kathleen suddenly found herself questioning all sorts of things.

After all, every doctor who had reviewed Mairead's file had stated unequivocally that her infant illness had left her in a perpetually weakened state. Had they all been wrong?

Mairead finally released her grip. Kathleen took that as a cue to do the same. It was then that she noticed the several other bundles lined up next to the single suitcase Mairead had taken with her two weeks earlier. “So what's all this?”

“Oh!” said Mairead. “Erm...I brought some...stuff.”

Kathleen raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” She smiled. “Nothing...surprising, I hope.”

Mairead cocked her head and smiled in an odd way that Kathleen wasn't sure how to interpret. “You'd be...surprised.” The girl really was cheeky. But somehow she managed to be adorable about it half the time. She turned around and began to rummage through a small satchel.

Noel chose that moment to walk around the corner. He'd also chosen to wear that silly paper-mache Tyrannosaurus head he'd been building. What was it with boys and dinosaurs? Noel sneaked up behind Mairead on tip-toe, arms raised like claws. Kathleen was about to chastise her son when he let out his version of what she guessed he thought a Tyrannosaurus roar should sound like.

Mairead glanced up. What happened next was mostly a blur to Kathleen. In what looked like a single, fluid motion, Mairead spun, pulling something from her waist that glinted in the light. The girl's motion turned into a kick that thudded into Noel's chest. Mairead's momentum carried her through the space her brother had occupied moments before. Her right arm whipped under Noel's “head,” then arced around to shove the shiny object she held onto the paper-mache eye as Mairead rode Noel's body to the floor.

The boy landed squarely on his back, the impact shuddering through the floorboards. Mairead came down with one sandaled foot on the floor and the other on Noel's chest. Her movement ended with her right hand held in some sort of strike position at one eye in paper-mache head and at an angle that Kathleen thought might have pierced the brain-pan of an actual animal, and Mairead's left hand gripping the paper “jaw” so hard, she'd crushed the wire in it. The intense expression on the girl's face was unlike anything Kathleen had ever seen.

“Did our daughter just...?” said John from behind Kathleen.

Kathleen jumped slightly.

Mairead didn't move. “Don't _ever_...do that...again!” she growled at Noel.

“She could have killed me!” Noel gasped, his muffled voice straining to find air.

“Nonsense,” said John. “Mairead...”

“Bloody right, I could have,” Mairead interrupted.

“Mairead, dear,” said John. “Please don't...you'll hurt yourself. We all know you're...how'd you do that, by the way?”

Mairead glanced at her father, but remained in her position despite Noel's feeble squirming. “If you're going to say I'm a fragile flower, you'd better think again,” she said decisively.

“Get her off me!” Noel shrieked, terror joining the pain in his voice.

Mairead yanked a long, sturdy knife out of the head, then rocked smoothly back into a graceful standing position, her knees slightly flexed.

Noel scrambled awkwardly to his feet and yanked off the head. “You ruined my head!”

“I did not,” said Mairead calmly.

Kathleen gaped at her daughter. “Mairead Nesbitt!” she scolded. “What in heaven?”

Mairead relaxed and looked back and forth between her mother and brother. Then she wiped the blade and returned it to the sheath that hung at her waist. Kathleen was surprised she hadn't noticed it before. On the other hand, she hadn't been looking for anything like that.

“Sorry,” said Mariead apologetically. “Reflex.”

“Since when?” demanded Kathleen.

“Well, you do want me to be able to defend myself, don't you?”

“She could have killed me!” Noel repeated.

“Ai,” said Mariead, crossing her arms defiantly. “I believe we've established that.”

Kathleen wasn't sure if her daughter had said “Aye,” or something else that just sounded like it.

“But she could have killed me!”

Orla clearned her throat. Mairead glanced at the older woman, who shook her head slightly. Mairead turned back to her brother. “I'm sorry, Noel. I didn't mean to attack you. I'd feel horrible if I'd hurt you. I...didn't hurt you, did I?”

Noel rubbed his chest. “No...not much, anyway. Just...don't tell anyone you did that to me. And where'd you learn that anyway?”

“Orla taught me.”

“Wicked!”

“It's nothing of the sort!” Kathleen protested. “You two know very well that we do not condone violence in this house.”

“Quite right,” said John, “but if on the off chance that...” Kathleen stopped him with an elbow to the ribs.

“Did you not charge me,” said Orla, “with teaching her everything I know?”

“Well, I didn't mean that,” said Kathleen. “I didn't even know you knew that anyway.”

“And how would you feel if she'd been attacked by a rabid dog? Or someone with nefarious purposes?” Kathleen somehow knew that Orla knew what her reply...and her husband's...would be. “Exactly,” Orla continued unanswered.

Orla turned to Noel. “And you, young man, should not sneak up on her like that. Or anyone else for that matter. While a knife to the head would certainly be considered a...disproportional response, you'd do well to consider the consequences of your actions _before_ you take them.”

Noel seemed to deflate. “I'm sorry, too,” he said. He stepped over to Mairead and gave her a hug.

“Hug me like you mean it!”

Noel didn't have to be asked twice and Kathleen supposed it had something to do with his sister's rather interesting demonstration. She made a mental note to have a stern talk with the girl.

Mairead turned and resumed what she'd apparently been trying to do just before Noel had startled her. She picked up a violin case. She opened it and beamed. “See what Orla gave me?” she gushed. She propped the instrument under her chin, picked up a bow, and drew a few dozen notes from the instrument.

Kathleen immediately noticed the difference in the instrument's tone. It was beautiful! Both its appearance and its sound were absolutely gorgeous. She'd seen, heard, and played many violins, but nothing like the instrument her daughter held.

Mairead brought her tune to a resolution. “What do you think?”

“It's remarkable!” She looked at Orla. “This isn't...penance for teaching my daughter violence, is it?”

“No,” laughed Orla, “it's nothing like that. Its previous owner was a very dear friend of mine who'd have wanted her to have it. There's no one in the world more suited for it.”

“I suppose I'll have to take your word for it.” Kathleen was actually rather grateful. She could tell her daughter would one day outgrow her current violin, which was already nearly too small for her. A good instrument was usually very expensive, which made things very difficult, especially when one had six children, all of whom were musicians. “And thank-you.”

Kathleen looked at Mairead. “You did thank Orlagh, didn't you?”

Mairead nodded vigorously.

Orla nodded, too. It wasn't that either of them expected Mairead to lie, but teenagers had a reputation for being...unreliable. Somehow, Kathleen suspected her daughter may have been understating things.

Mairead returned her instrument to its case, stood up, and winced slightly.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“Ai, Dad,” said Mairead. “I'm fine. Just...a stitch in my side, that's all.”

Kathleen caught a worried look from Orla. “Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

“Oh, you're back!” Frances flounced into the room and cocked her head. “That's...an interesting color, Mairead,” she said, indicating her sister's dress.

Kathleen had to admit it was indeed an interesting shade of orange.

“Oh,” said Mariead, turning her attention to her garment. “Thank-you. I learned about fiber dyes.”

“Well, that's interesting, but it wasn't a complement.”

Mairead shot her sister a look. “They _do_ have madder in Scotland, you know,” she said flatly.

While that was true, the color still looked a little off for madder.

Frances fingered the fabric, peering at it intently. “What mordant did you use?” she demanded.

Mairead's gaze seemed to bore a pair of holes into Frances' eyes. “Ingarium,” she said flatly. At Orla's clearing throat, she added, “It's...obscure.” Frances started to say something, but Mairead continued. “Think of it as...full-contact fiber arts.”

Orla snorted a suppressed laugh. Kathleen raised an inquisitive eyebrow and Orla said, “Scots have some very strange customs.”

That remark drew a laugh from everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photo of Orla on the Arghim masonry stove probably looks a lot like this:
> 
> http://www.celticwoman.com/about/orla/


	6. Chapter 6

Loughmoe, Ireland  
March 29, CY 1, 2012 AD

“Unbelievable!” breathed John.

Marido shrugged. “Oh, and ya-Mum? About magic never having been done in this house?”

Kathleen glared at Marido.

“It's being done right now.”

Kathleen's eyes narrowed. “Stop it.”

“Can't,” said Marido.

“What do you mean...”

“What she means,” Orla interrupted, “is that Marido and I are All-Speakers.”

“Sounds Norse,” said Noel.

“All-Speakers,” said Orla, “possess the magical ability to learn to speak other languages. Most of us have a lot of trouble with that. We can learn to understand other languages, but learning to speak them is something else entirely. The leading theory is that it, like learning and teaching styles, has something to do with neural architecture. Yes, our brains are wired completely differently from yours.”

Kathleen's mouth hung open.

“Yes, ya-Mum, it means Orla and I have been doing magic in this very house since I was swapped with Mairead. And that's in addition to the camouflage that disguised me as a human. All-Speaking is passive anyway. I can no more stop doing that than I can stop my heart from beating. Please get over it, okay?”

“My involvement in Marido's life,” continued Orla, “decreased somewhat after her fourteenth birthday, though we still made semi-regular social dates. She still had much to learn...about magic, combat, and so forth. We were both thrilled when we got to work together. Our time on-stage as founding members of Celtic Woman was especially meaningful for us. And really, it's been the most fun I've had standing up...human shoes notwithstanding, of course. And so now you also understand why I also took part in other important events, like her wedding.”

“That was kind of a relief,” said Frances. “You getting married. Seriously, Mum and Dad were starting to think you were gay.” Marido swatted her lightly on the arm. “What? You'd stopped showing interest in boys!”

“I did not,” Marido protested. “It's just that coupling with a human would have killed me. So I really didn't see the point. I knew...or thought I knew...that I'd be returning to Ingary someday and marrying someone there.”

“Not that we would have disowned you or anything...for being gay, I mean,” said John. “We'd have gotten over it, but it just would have been...a bit shocking, I suppose.”

“And her being an alien isn't?” said Kathleen. She exhaled. “I'm sorry. It's...a lot to take in.”

Marido chuckled. “I know the feeling. Imagine it happening to you...basically waking up to discover you're an alien!” That drew a little restrained laughter.

Orla fed Alfu a piece of raw chicken liver and stroked her snout.

“Do you really have to feed that thing in here?” John asked.

Orla's eyes narrowed. “She's not a thing, ya-John. She's an endangered species and, aside from Marido, the closest thing to a family I have. And I'm the closest thing to family she has. So, yes, I do have to feed her in here.”

“That,” said John, nodding at Alfu, “is the closest thing you have to family? I thought you had a husband and a son.”

“I did!” snapped Orla. “They died in the supernova!” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. “Cling tightly to your loved ones, ya-John. You have no idea when or how they may be taken from you.”

Kathleen gasped. “Oh, I'm so sorry! We...we didn't know!” She stepped over and gave Orla a hug. Orla returned it one-armed.

“That's quite alright,” said Orla. “ I should have said something.”

“Our condolences,” said John. “I can't imagine...well, okay, maybe I can.”

“Like Neil said earlier, every surviving Ingarian has had someone, several someones in most cases, close to them die in that disaster. It's been both a blessing and a curse having so many who truly know and feel my pain.”

“I'm a little confused,” said Ray. “I thought you...” He nodded to Orla. “...were only a few years older than you.” He nodded to Marido.

“Now, now,” said Orla. “Don't you know you should never ask a lady her age?”

Ray lifted an eyebrow.

“He has a bit of a point,” said Rosemary. “How could you possibly be old enough to have been Mairead...Marido's...godmother?”

Orla smiled knowingly. “Because at the time, I was old enough to have been her mother.”

“Now that you mention it,” said Noel pensively, “you look about how you did when I was a boy...no, you look _exactly_ like I remember you.”

Orla's smile broadened. “More specifically,” she said, looking at John, “I'm old enough to be _your_ mother.”

“What?!” exclaimed John. “You can't be older than...forty?”

Orla chuckled. “How old does one have to be in order to legally be a godparent?”

“Eighteen?”

“And how old is Marido?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-three,” corrected Marido.

John winced. “But that would make you forty-five...minimum.”

“Hell,” said Ray, “you're the best-preserved near-fifty-year-old I've ever seen.”

“Who says I'm only fifty?” said Orla.

“You're older?”

“I said I'm old enough to be John's mother.”

“You're in your sixties?”

Orla shook her head.

“Seventy?”

Orla shook her head again.

“Now you're just being ridiculous,” said Frances.

“You can't possibly be eighty!” said Ray.

“I'm eighty-seven,” said Orla.

“Good God!” said Noel.

“Have you been taking human growth hormone?” Ray asked.

Orla cocked an eyebrow. “ _Human_ growth hormone? Really, ya-Ray. You know I'm not human, so why would I be taking _human_ hormones?”

“Erm...Ingarian growth hormone?”

Orla snorted. “Of course not.”

“Don't tell me you're of the line of Numenor!” said Noel.

Orla tipped her head back and laughed. “No, no. We just have a far longer life-span than you do.”

“Just... _how_ much longer?” Kathleen asked. “How long will our...will Mairead...Marido live?”

“Oh, a good four, maybe five hundred years, at least.”

Marido's family looked at her. She shrugged. “H...how?” said Frances.

“You wouldn't believe how many genetic errors you have,” said Orla. “Those have a _lot_ to do with aging. Actually, you'll burn yourselves out in another fifty or so generations.”

“We're...an endangered species?” said Ray.

“No,” said Marido, “ _We're_ an endangered species. _You_ are facing extinction in a thousand years.”

“I thought,” said Noel, “there were three hundred fifty thousand of you.”

“There are,” said Neil, “but that's out of three _billion_. Weren't you paying attention?”

Noel exhaled. “I'm...sorry. It's just...I don't know.”

“I think we're all running on nerves. I can't speak for the rest of you, but I could use some sleep. I think we'd all feel better in the morning.”

“Ya-Orla?” said Marido. “Do you think you could give me that marthwiloros before we all go to bed?”

Orla raised an eyebrow, then set the eyedropper on the table. “I could, but I don't think you know what you're asking.”

“I see how handy that is and I want one, too,” said Marido decisively.

Orla exhaled. “When I was twelve, my mother went out of town on business. My father took me out to the middle of nowhere, and knocked me out...sort of chloroformed me, you could say. When I woke up, I found he'd tied me all splayed out between two trees. He told me what he was about to do was for my own good. He also said it would hurt him more than it would hurt me. He was wrong. What he did next was the most horrible thing I've ever experienced in my life. Well, until I found out that my family and my world died, that is.

“You must understand, ya-Marido, that giving you a marthwiloros is essentially quantum surgery. I must carve a pocket out of the dimensions of space your soul occupies. It's unspeakably painful...a full half hour of sheer, unabated agony the likes of which you couldn't imagine. And once I start, I must _not_ be interrupted, nor must you move, or you will die. That's why Father tied me up.”

Orla looked at Neil and Ray. “If I do this, I may need you two to restrain John and Kathleen. Seeing one's child...blood or adopted...in pain is the worst thing in the world to bear, second only to watching them die. I really don't know how Father brought himself to do it. Maybe he knew that if he stopped, I'd die, so stopping was worse than continuing. Let me tell you, though, Mother was absolutely furious with him when she returned, and rightly so, and I was an emotional mess for months afterward.”

She returned her attention to Marido. “Are you absolutely sure you want me to do this?”

Marido nodded. “Do it.”

Orla nodded. She turned to Frances and held Alfu out to her. “Would you please hold Alfu for me? I'll need both hands and all my attention.”

“Erm...sure...I suppose,” said Frances uncertainly as she accepted the small animal, which was still wrapped in the blanket John had found earlier.

“Mairead...sorry, Marido,” said Kathleen, “are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No, ya-Mum, but I'm doing it anyway.”

Orla picked up her staff. “Follow me. And bring that stick you had Rosemary bite on.” She strode toward the back of the house and out into the yard, everyone else trailing her.

Orla turned around and looked at Marido. “Lay down,” she said. “On your front.”

Marido put the stick in her mouth and lay down with her hands under her head. “How's this?”

“Put your arms next to your sides.” Marido complied. “Perfect. Everyone else...stay back. I can't stress that enough. If you're _very_ lucky, you'll pass out in the first five minutes.”

“Oh, joy,” said Marido around the stick.

Orla stepped next to Marido's head, which was hard to see in the feeble candlelight spilling out from the house. “And it's going to get bright out here... _very_ bright. Is everyone ready?” She waited a moment, then began to twirl her staff through the air. After a few revolutions, it began to glow, oscillating between green and red. Energy arced off of it into the surrounding air, some of it licking up and down Marido's back. Marido grunted and twitched a little. Neil tensed. He had a bad feeling about the whole thing.

Orla continued to twirl the staff for what felt like five minutes, but was probably less than one. With each revolution, it glowed brighter and brighter as it drew more and more magical energy out of the air. A strange hissing hum filled the air, the sound rising steadily in pitch. Then Orla drew back, squatted down slightly, and jammed one end of the staff against Marido's upper back just below her neck.

The resulting flash of light made it impossible to see whether the staff was actually touching Marido, but she let out a scream of agony. Neil raised his hand to shield his eyes, keeping part of his attention on the other Nesbitts, should it be necessary to keep them from interfering. They, too, shied away from the brilliance and Neil hoped that would be dissuasion enough for the time being.

The intensity of the light fluctuated enough to allow Neil the occasional glimpse of what Orla was doing. It wasn't necessarily helpful. He could see Orla holding herself in a crouching position, occasionally shifting, and it almost seemed like she was prying something apart with her staff.

Marido kept screaming and twitching. Neil was quite impressed with her self-control. He was even more impressed with her family's. Seeing a loved one in that much pain, yet still doing nothing, wasn't easy. Being helpless _to_ do anything was one thing, but willfully standing by and watching was something else entirely. Neil had barely known Marido for a fortnight and even he felt a noticeable amount of vicarious pain.

Kathleen buried her face in John's shoulder while John held his eyes downcast, though Neil wondered how much of that was a psychological coping reflex and how much was because of the blinding light. How did Orla manage to see what she was doing? On the other hand, maybe carving out a marthwiloros didn't require sight.

“I can't take it,” said Kathleen. She tore herself out of John's embrace and rushed toward Marido. Neil was faster. He took two large steps and grabbed Kathleen's arm, stopping her mid-stride.

“Ya-Kathleen,” he said, “don't. You'll kill her.”

“How do you know?” Her question was barely audible above the hissing, humming noise.

“I have more experience with magic than you do. If a mage says something dire about a spell, it generally means one of two things. Either they're dead serious about it, or they're exaggerating to make themselves look more impressive...sometimes both. Now, you know Orla much better than I do. Which do you think she meant and how much risk are you willing to take?”

Kathleen's gaze was back-lit by the glare of the magical energy flowing through and around Orla's staff. Neil was fairly sure he could guess what that expression said: 'You're right, but I don't have to like it one damn bit.'

After what seemed like an eternity of the hissing thrum of magical energy running counterpoint with Marido's screaming, everything abruptly stopped. All was silent, save for a soft, whimpering sob coming from Marido.

For several pregnant moments, nobody moved. Then Kathleen rushed to Marido's side. “Mairead? Dear, are you...?”

Marido moaned, rolled over, and flopped onto her back. She took a few ragged breaths. “Ai. I'm fine...I think.” She looked up at Orla. “And here I thought you were exaggerating.”

John stalked over to Orla. “And _you_ have done quite enough.”

“Ya-John,” said Orla, “Marido and I discussed it, as you're well aware. She's an adult. She can make her own decisions.”

“But...”

“Ya-Dad,” interrupted Marido, “it's okay. My neck itches like mad...and my back feels like a peeled prawn...but I'm unharmed.”

“How do you know? The way you were screaming...”

“Childbirth is painful and you wouldn't have a problem with that, would you?”

“But childbirth is natural,” said Kathleen.

“And it's not painful for us anyway,” said Orla.

All heads swiveled to Orla. “It isn't?” said Marido.

“It's a little...strange...and awkward...and uncomfortable...and messy...and potentially more dangerous. But not painful like it is for you.”

“That's not fair,” said Frances.

Orla shrugged.

“I suppose,” said Marido, “I should be thankful that...erm...procedure only took _half_ an hour.” She groaned. “I don't think I could have taken much more of that.”

“Never mind you,” said Kathleen, “I couldn't have taken it either.”

“I had to restrain her,” said Neil. He was beginning to understand why Orla's father had performed her procedure when, where, and how he had. Though _why_ he'd done it was a mystery. Neil couldn't imagine doing that to his own child.

“I'm surprised you didn't pass out,” said Orla. “You're strong, ya-Marido. I think you have a lot of potential.” She stepped over and helped Marido to her feet.

“That had better have been worth it,” growled Marido, wiping the tears from her face.

“That's entirely up to you. Besides, it's irreversible anyhow.”

Marido grunted and leaned against Orla. Her legs seemed wobbly. “Whoa...” she said as she nearly fell over. Neil caught her. “Please tell me the itch and the...rest of it...go away.”

“It does.”

“You're not just saying that to make us all feel better?”

“It'll pass.”

“It had better.”

“I think,” said Neil, “it's officially bed time. I'll take the floor.”

“Speaking of taking things,” said Frances, “Orla, would you take this?” She indicated the furlit she still held. The animal made a cooing sound.

“I think she likes you,” said Orla. “But, yes, I will.” She stepped over and accepted Alfu into the crook of her arm.

The elder Nesbitts led everyone inside. Marido slept in her old bed, dropping off almost as soon as her head hit her pillow. Orla and Rosemary took two spares in an adjoining room, Alfu joining Orla under her blanket. Neil volunteered to sleep on the living room floor and Ray grudgingly followed suit. Neil lay awake for a time, the day's events playing over and over in his head. Eventually, the soft ticking of the room's pendulum-driven clock lulled him to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Loughmoe, Ireland  
March 30, CY 1, 2012 AD

Kathleen Nesbitt awoke to a rare sunny Irish morning. She smiled despite herself, sat up, and groaned. Her husband John did the same.

“You know, lass,” he said, “getting old is not for the faint of heart.”

“We're not old yet, silly,” she said.

“Tell that to my joints.”

Both husband and wife chuckled. Kathleen stood up. “But I did have the strangest dream.”

“You mean the one about technology not working?”

“No, no. We've already established that's real. No, I'm talking about another one.”

“Do tell, love.”

“Well...I dreamed our daughter returned from being on tour...and that she was an alien! Silly, I know.” Something at the back of her mind pricked at her consciousness, though.

John shot her a look.

“What?” she asked.

“I had exactly the same dream. What are the odds?”

Kathleen felt her blood go cold, then visibly shook herself out of it. “Coincidence,” she said.

“Are you sure?” John asked as he walked into the bathroom.

“Yes...no...I don't know. But it's ridiculous!”

“So was technology failing.”

“But our daughter can't be an alien! It's impossible!”

“That's what we said about the Change. But it happened anyway.”

Kathleen glared at her husband as they switched rooms. “You're not saying you actually believe Mairead could be an alien, are you?”

John chuckled. “Not really. That would mean we're aliens. Which we're not.”

“Or that we adopted her.”

“What did you say?” said John slowly.

“I said, 'or that we adopted her,'”

John was silent for several moments. “Oh, dear,” he said at length.

“Oh, dear, what?” asked Kathleen as she emerged, drying her hands on a towel.

“That's what we did in the dream.”

“Well, I think I'd have remembered adopting an alien.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Of course I am.”

“Still, what are the odds of us both having the same dream? And what smells so good?”

Kathleen tipped her head up slightly. “Who's fixing breakfast? And is that coffee? None of us are morning people.”

“Mairead is.”

Kathleen and John, now fully clothed, looked at each other. She felt a low-level alarm building within her. She rushed to the door, pulled it open, and stumbled out into the hallway.

Everything looked the way it should. Voices echoed across the house from the kitchen, too indistinct to be identifiable. Both sounded female and from the laughter, both seemed in good spirits. But only Frances and Noel should have been home, and Frances was a grouch in the morning, so who would the other woman have been? Kathleen was beginning to have a bad feeling. Then she noticed a stack of what looked like backpacks lined up near the front door. No, no, no. That would mean only...

She froze as a face both familiar and unfamiliar looked up from the couch. A young man rose to his feet and nodded to her.

“Nal-heratha, ya-Kathleen,” he said.

Kathleen's eyes grew wide. Her breathing quickened.

“Sishobuka?” he asked.

Kathleen screamed. The young man flinched. John yelped slightly from behind her. From the other direction, two women, Orla and Mairead, burst from the kitchen.

“Ya-Mum?” said Mairead—no, not Mairead, but Marido, Kathleen remembered. She wore a knee-length dress with a strange orange hue. It had a mismatched line up one side as though it had been stitched up at one point. A pendant hung around her neck, a single large, wicked-looking claw...and her eyes were too big. She rushed over to Kathleen, who stared at her.

Kathleen felt her husband's hands on her shoulders. “Honey?” He was clearly trying to calm her, but she could hear the agitation in his voice. She whirled around and buried her head in his shoulder.

For a few minutes, no one said anything. When Kathleen had calmed down, John helped her to the sofa while Orla returned to the kitchen.

“It...it...it...wasn't a dream!” Kathleen wailed.

“All this, you mean?” asked Marido.

Kathleen nodded.

Marido smiled. “No, ya-Mum. No, it wasn't.”

Kathleen had yet to share that dream, but it was clear to all present what had happened. The previous evening's revelation had been rather traumatic. Her subconscious had re-lived it overnight, trying to internalize and make sense of it. She'd awoken and, thinking the whole thing about her daughter being an alien to be wild fantasy, assumed it to have been a dream. Then she'd been horrified when Neil's presence in her living room had shattered that illusion.

Kathleen locked eyes with Marido. “If you're not my daughter,” she said coldly, “then why do you keep calling me 'Mum?'”

Marido exhaled. “Mother and father are biology. Mum and Dad are relational. I think of you as my mum and dad because that's the relationship we have. Same with you,” she directed that to Noel and Frances. “I think of you as my siblings, even though I know you're really not. I love you all like I would my blood-family. You do realize that, don't you?”

Kathleen closed her eyes, took a deep breath, held it, then let it back out. She opened them again and gazed at Marido. Aside from her eyes, and the bones protruding from her elbows, the young woman looked the same as she always had. She was clearly gazing upon the same person she'd raised as her daughter. After a moment, she nodded.

“We...we love you,” said John. “We adopted you...not with our knowledge, sure, but we adopted you nonetheless. And we raised you as our own.” He looked at his wife. “Honey...think about it. We raised an alien.”

Kathleen smiled weakly, then wiped a tear from her eye. She reached up and fingered the claw that hung from Marido's neck. “That's...from the...dinosaur thing?”

Marido nodded. “Ai.”

Noel chuckled. “My sister's more bad-ass than Chuck Norris!” Then he added, “yeh, yeh, I know you're not really my sister. But I'm not sure I care.”

“So _now_ are you going to tell me about the...what did you call it...ingarium mordant?” Frances asked, fingering the orange fabric of Mario's dress.

“Oh, this,” laughed Marido. “Actually, I'm rather surprised it still fits. I suppose I grew up more than out. As I recall, it was originally at least two sizes too big. Fits perfectly now, though.”

“What does that have to do with ingarium? And what _is_ that anyway?”

“It's an element that only occurs on Ingary. It's also in the blood of everything on my world.” She lifted her skirts slightly. “You know, Orla used three different spells to try to get the blood out. And this was the result.”

“Gah!” yelped Frances. “How...you mean...that's... _blood?!_ ”

Marido nodded.

“That's disgusting! How can you _wear_ that?!”

Marido shrugged. “I wore the whole bloody mess, as you may recall.”

“And...that?” said Kathleen, pointing at the mended slit in the garment.

“Oh, right.” Marido pulled her dress up.

“What are you doing?”

Marido rolled her eyes. “Really, ya-Mum. You changed my nappies.” She continued to lift the hem up past her hip.

“You're not wearing underpants?!”

“Things are different,” said Marido indulgently. She pulled the hem up to her lower rib cage. A thick, white scar adorned the left side of her abdomen. “See? It's a badge of honor.”

Noel whistled.

“That must have been...excruciating!” said John.

“Ai, it was. Nearly got infected, too.”

“A dinosaur ripped you open?”

“More or less.”

“And you're okay with that?!”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because,” said Kathleen, “ _we're_ not okay with it! What if you'd been killed?”

“Well...I've been over that...with Orla. Believe me, she raked me up one side and down the other about it. It was something I had to do, but you're right...it was highly risky...and stupid. Truth is, though, I didn't set out to fight a velociraptor. I was just going to cut the claws and teeth from one of the dead ones. But I think things turned out better the way they did. I came through the other side a much stronger woman. Sort of a trial by fire. And that's...why I reacted to Noel's dinosaur head the way I did.”

John exhaled and ran a hand through his hair.

“You weren't kidding about full-contact fiber arts, then,” said Ray.

Noel pointed to the middle of Marido's abdomen. “And what the devil happened to your belly button?”

“Oh,” said Marido nonchalantly. “We don't have them.”

“What?”

“Ingarians don't have belly-buttons,” said Neil.

“Okay,” said Noel to Marido, “ _why_ don't you have belly-buttons?”

Marido shrugged. “No idea. We just don't.”

“A belly-button,” said Neil, “is a scar from the umbilical cord. In humans, and every other mammal, the blood supply enters the fetus in one spot.” He pointed to the general vicinity of his own belly-button. “With Ingarians, the blood supply enters the fetus all over. So rather than one big spot, there are a whole bunch of little ones too small to form scar tissue. It's actually rather more complicated, but that's the general idea.”

“How?” said Noel.

“Uh...it'd be easier to show you in a book on Ingarian anatomy...which we happen to have aboard my father's yacht. But in general, there's a network of blood vessels covering the inside of the casing and...”

“The what?” said Noel. “You and Orla mentioned that, but...”

“It's sort of like an egg.”

Noel looked sharply at Marido. “You said you weren't reptilian!”

“We're not!”

“But you hatch out of eggs!”

Marido rolled her eyes. “Morthwillak as-Grapthar we shanlonllak as-Warfan, ya-Noel!”

“What?”

Marido exhaled. “By Grapthar's Hammer and the Sons of Warfan.”

“You...you speak an alien language?!”

“Of course we speak an alien language, you ninny! We're aliens! What did you think we spoke...Klingon?”

“Klingon's an alien language.”

“It's a _pretend_ alien language. Orla and I and all our people are _real_ aliens. And we speak a _real_ alien language.” She crossed her arms and tapped one of her lenomae. “Or do I have to give you the point, as it were?”

Noel held his hands up in a defensive gesture. “That...that won't be necessary.”

“Didn't think so.”

“Breakfast's ready!” Orla announced from the dining room. “And I've segregated the food, too.”

“Segregated the food?” asked Noel dubiously.

“You didn't expect me to serve the rest of you horse chestnuts, did you?”

Marido perked up.

“But those are poisonous!” said Kathleen.

“Not to us.”

Kathleen groaned.

“Theoretically,” said Neil, “you could leach the aesculin out of them. That would make them edible for all of us.”

“But then they'd be so...bland,” Marido protested.

Kathleen groaned again. “And to think I used to question whether you really are my daughter. Now I know. Not sure I wanted to. But...” She shrugged.

Everyone gathered around the table. One of the virtues of there having been such a large family was that there was just enough space for all the guests.

Rosemary reached for a glass pitcher full of a light pink liquid.

“Oh, sorry,” said Orla, “that's for Ingarians only.”

Rosemary raised an eyebrow as Marido picked it up and poured some first for Orla and then for herself.

Kathleen pointed at it. “Isn't that the tonic you made for...Marido...after she came down with that...non-infection?”

“Ai,” said Marido, taking a sip.

John's eyes narrowed as he peered at Orla. “As I recall, you said it would help. But...it never did.”

“Oh, I did say it would help,” said Orla, “I just never said with what.”

“Okay,” said Kathleen, “then just _how_ did it help?”

“It corrected her arsenic deficiency.”

Kathleen nearly choked on her Irish breakfast tea. “Arsenic? Arsenic?! You...you poisoned her?!”

Orla rolled her eyes. “Don't be absurd, ya-Kathleen. Why in the worlds would I poison her? I love her as though she were my own daughter.”

“We're aliens, ya-Mum,” said Marido as she sliced into a buckwheat scone. “Remember? We have alien physiology. I thought we'd made that quite clear.”

Kathleen groaned. “Someone wake me when this is over.”

“That's the best part,” said Neil with a grin. “This is real. And you both get to be a big part of it.”

“I think the man may have a point,” said John, “I mean, we raised an alien. Do you realize how significant that is?”

“Oh, it is. But do you also realize how dangerous that was?”

“What do you mean?”

“I've had a look in your pantry. I don't think you...” He looked at Orla. “...or you have any idea just how easily nor how many times you could have poisoned her.”

“P...p...poisoned?” said John. “But we don't _have_ poison in the kitchen!”

“Yes, ya-John, actually you do. Not to us, but certainly to them.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I'm the world's foremost authority on ethnobotany with respect to Ingarian biochemistry and nutrition.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. It meant flunking out of secondary school and all but abandoning my best mates, but it was all worth it.”

“And your parents didn't complain?”

Neil chuckled. “Of course they complained. They're my parents. It's their responsibility. But they also recognized the importance of my work. You have to realize that Ingarians knew almost nothing about our world, nothing about what they could eat and what they couldn't. As the reigning king of Googling things, it didn't take long for me to get obsessed with trying to figure out what Ingarians could eat and what they couldn't. And in the meantime, they were getting hungry. One thing led to another and after a few years, I'd gained at least a Masters-level knowledge of the subject. I now know more about Ingarian nutrition with respect to Earth flora than anyone else on the planet. Without my work, the Ingarian diaspora would have either starved, or died of toxic shock. I know, it sounds arrogant. But I need only look at an Ingarian to know otherwise.” He chuckled. “And having a powerful and mischievous cousin tends to keep things in perspective. Besides, with all the hours I put into my research, I actually learned far more, and ended up doing far more homework, than I would have had I just stayed in school.” He looked at Orla, then at Marido. “But how did you do it? How did you avoid killing yourselves?”

“Very carefully,” said Orla. “Well,” she added, “I brought a lot of food with me from Ingary and brought a lot of it to Marido. And I otherwise ate a very high-protein diet. I did tell you I watched her like a hawk, didn't I?”

Marido hiccuped.

“Marido, dear,” said Kathleen, “are you all right?”

Marido frowned pensively, then hiccuped again. Her eyebrows shot up as she and Orla exchanged looks. Orla reached over and placed her hand on Marido's forehead, then closed her eyes. After a moment, they flew open and she gasped, a smile spreading across her face. She nodded.

Marido smiled, too, and the two women exchanged hugs.

Neil let out a whoop.

“What's all that about?” asked Ray.

“There are exactly two things,” said Orla, “that can give an Ingarian woman the hiccups. One of them is garlic.”

“But we haven't eaten any,” said Rosemary.

“What's the other one?” John asked, a note of concern in his voice.

Marido grinned hiccuped again. “It's...I'm having morning sickness.”

“You're...you're pregnant?” said Kathleen.

Marido nodded and hiccuped.

“What?!” exclaimed Frances. “How are hiccups your morning sickness?”

Marido shrugged.

“I...we thought you were barren,” said John.

Kathleen tensed. When Marido's first period had failed to arrive, ever, Kathleen and John had assumed it to have been another congenital defect. She'd never imagined how far from the truth they'd been!

Kathleen elbowed John. Husbands. “I think he means that when you didn't...” Why was it she just couldn't talk about such things at the table?

“You never had your period,” said Frances. “What?” she added. “One of us had to say it.”

Mariod shrugged. “We don't menstruate.”

“Well, that's not fair either!”

“If it makes you feel any better, we have a ten-month gestation period.”

“Wait,” said Noel, “it's more of that alien physiology, isn't it?”

“Ai,” hiccup, said Marido.

“Isn't that annoying?” said Rosemary.

“Ai,” said Orla. “You have no idea.”

“And, oh,” said Neil, “you should have heard my uncle complain about my aunt. During her second month, she hiccuped nonstop for five straight days. It drove Uncle Howell bonkers, it did. Mum said it served him right. But then after Aunt Sophie calmed down, Uncle Howell slept for twenty-seven hours straight.”

Marido hiccuped.

Orla fed a grub worm to Alfu.

“You know,” said Neil, “I really like this family. You're a lot of fun...or at least, you will be once you all adjust.”

John sighed. “I guess you'd know about that, wouldn't you?”

Neil nodded.

Marido hiccuped. “Not sure what's worse,” she said, “the...” hiccup “...hiccups, or human morning sickness.” Hiccup.

“I think I'd take the hiccups,” said Kathleen.

“But every day for four months?” Orla asked.

“Oh, dear. Marido, I'm so sorry about that.”

“Don't be,” hiccup, said Marido. “I'm not. Just that...” hiccup “...Shan won't be here to...” She choked back a tear. Both John and Orla rubbed one of her shoulders.

“It's still a victory,” said Neil. “Every baby is.”

“I believe you,” said Rosemary.

Kathleen exhaled. “I'm finally going to have my first grandbaby and it's an alien.”

“Why do I suddenly feel,” said Noel, “that we're in a weird sci-fi movie?”

Neil tipped his head back and laughed. “You know, I said exactly the same thing once.”

“So will it be slimy and gross or something?” Noel asked.

“Excuse me?” said Orla.

“Yes,” said Neil. “As a matter of fact, her baby _will_ be all slimy and gross at birth.”

“Hah!” said Noel triumphantly.

Orla's eyes narrowed. Marido hiccuped.

“Ya-Noel?” said Neil. “You are aware that _we're_ slimy and gross when we're born, too, aren't you?”

Noel's face fell. “Ah...right.”

“It's interesting how living with aliens for the last five years has changed my perspective on things. But you know, one thing it's taught me is that family doesn't have to be related.”

John and Kathleen looked at each other, then at Marido, then at Neil. “You know,” said John, “I hadn't quite thought about it that way.”

“You already have those relationships. Not of blood, of course, but of heart. That's more important anyway.”

“You have blood?” said Noel.

Marido rolled her eyes. “Ya-Noel, you're impossible.” She drew the large knife she wore at her belt, then pricked her left ring finger. A drop of maroon blood appeared. “See?”

Noel let out a low whistle.

“What?” said Marido. “You've seen me bleed before.” She quickly reached over and wiped the blood across Noel's forehead.

Noel shrieked and began to paw at his face. “Get if off! Get it off! Get it off!”

Marido grabbed Noel under his jaw. “Stop...it!” she hissed. “You've had my blood on you before. It's not a big deal.” Hiccup. “Besides, what did you think I had in my veins...antifreeze?” Hiccup. “Now get...over...it!” Hiccup. She released Noel, who began to calm down some.

“She's right, you know,” said Neil.

“You said,” said John, “that your aunt's one?”

“More than that.” Neil pulled something out of the pouch he wore on his belt and handed it to John. Kathleen recognized it as the small booklet of plastic sleeves people keep in their wallets for things like cards and photos. The first was of Neil, noticeably younger and dressed in a nice suit and tie, and a pretty girl in a flowy dress, her hair tied back in a low ponytail.

“She's cute,” said John.

“But sad,” said Kathleen.

“That was a few months after we met,” said Neil. “I'd asked her to a formal dance. It was almost a pity date, but I'd developed a crush on her. So I didn't have to lie. And I'm so glad I didn't.” He gestured toward the photos.

John turned to the second one. It showed a close-up of the same girl, but clearly older and much happier. “She's gorgeous!” said Kathleen.

Neil blushed. “Thanks. I think so, too.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name's Nalaya. She's my wife.”

Noel and Frances had moved to look over their parents' shoulders. Noel let out a wolf whistle. “Does she have a sister?” he asked.

“She had two. But they died.”

“Oh, no,” said Kathleen. “That's awful!”

“Does she have a cousin?” asked Noel hopefully.

“Noel!” Kathleen scolded.

“Yes,” said Neil, “but she's married to my uncle.”

“Wait,” said Frances, “you married your cousin?”

“She's not my cousin.”

“But she's your aunt's cousin.”

Neil sighed. “She's my mother's brother's wife's father's sister's daughter. We're not related.” He motioned again to the photos and John turned the page.

The next showed Neil and Nalaya, he again in a nice suit and she in a sleeveless, ankle-length white gown. “That was on our wedding day,” said Neil.

Kathleen peered at the photo. What's that on her elb...” Her voice cut off and she glanced sharply up at Neil. “She's...Ingarian?”

“Like I said, we're not related.”

“You married one of them?” said Noel.

“Ya-Noel!” hiccup, scolded Marido.

“Is that a problem?” said Neil.

“You married an alien!”

“Correction. I married a wonderful, charming, intelligent, beautiful woman named Nalaya. Who just happens to be an alien. She's my wife and I love her.”

“But she's an alien!”

“So's Marido.”

“Well,” said Ray, “James Bond always did have a thing for exotic women.”

Neil laughed. “Ai, it doesn't get any more exotic than alien women, does it?”

“Maybe you should feel more like Captain Kirk than James Bond.”

“If she's Ingarian, then her sisters...?” Kathleen began.

“One of them died in an equestrian accident as a young girl. The other...” He didn't need to finish the sentence.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” said Kathleen. “That's horrible!”

“We're healing.” Then he smiled. “And we're expecting a daughter in June.”

“You...” began Noel.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Neil interrupted. “I've been through this with my best friend. Just get over it. She's part of my family and we're all very happy about that.”

“Speaking of family,” said Marido. She hiccuped, then reached behind her back and produced a flat, rectangular object. She handed it to Kathleen.

Kathleen tentatively took it. It was a framed sepia-tone photograph of a young couple. She peered at the woman. She looked at Marido, then back at the photo, then again at Marido. “Is...is this...are these your...your birth parents?”

Marido nodded. Hiccup. “Ai.”

John looked at the photo, then at Marido, then again at the photo, then back at Marido. “Bloody hell,” he said, “you look just like her. I mean, _exactly_ like her!”

Marido shrugged and hiccuped. She took the photograph and put it behind her.

Kathleen leaned over, trying to see where it had gone.

“You won't see anything, you know,” said Marido. She propped her elbows on the table, then started. “Gah!” She glanced at her own elbows, sighed heavily, and hiccuped. “I suppose that's one way to make me keep my elbows off the table.” That brought a round of chuckles. She looked at Orla. “Thusheoin motorishka pos?”

Orla shrugged, then glanced at Kathleen.

Marido cringed a little, looked at Kathleen, and hiccuped. “Sorry.” She looked back at Orla. “How do we stand these?”

“It helps when you grow up with them,” said Orla.

Marido rested her forearms on the table's edge and sighed, then looked her adopted mother in the eye. Kathleen could see in those eyes the same girl she'd raised. The whole thing was strange, but also somehow beautiful.

“I've spent more time over the last two weeks in my true form than I have since I returned from Ingary when I turned fourteen,” said Marido. Hiccup. “I thought I'd fully adapted to being Ingarian, but clearly I haven't.” She took a bite of her scone, then made a yummy sound.

That seemed to be a cue for the others to tuck into their own food.

“Well,” said Marido hesitantly, “I slept like a rock last night. But then I awoke lomelgenlak and couldn't get back to sleep, so...”

“I'm sorry,” Kathleen interrupted, “lo-what?”

“Lomelgen. It's...morning twilight.” Hiccup. “I couldn't get back to sleep, so I spent some time stowing things into my marthwiloros before coming out here to start breakfast.” She looked at Orla. “That's already coming in very handy.”

“What did you put in there?” John asked.

Marido smiled. “Lots,” she said. Hiccup.

“Chloe's going to be upset about that, you know,” said Neil. “Did she tell you...”

“About what you made her leave behind?” Marido interrupted. She snorted. “She must have spent half the trip from Dublin complaining about it.”

“What happened?” asked Kathleen.

“Neil made Chloe leave a lot of her belongings behind in Knocklyon,” said Ray.

“Why?” said Frances.

Neil explained what had happened there.

“Oh, good Lord!” said Kathleen.

“That's awful!” said Frances.

“We think they'll be fine,” said Neil. “Though it's going to be touchy.”

Frances looked at Orla. “Why didn't you put all that in your marth...whatever.”

Orla's eyes narrowed a little. “Marthwiloros. And because I'm not a baggage cart.”

“I appreciate that,” said Neil, “and I understand...I think...but that is, in fact, an important logistical tool. And if we need one or the other or the both of you to be...baggage carts, as you put it...then you'll have to do it. We'll try to avoid it, of course, but...”

“Do, or do not,” said Orla, “there is no try.”

Neil smiled. “Of course. But the point is, if we need you in that way, then we need you in that way.”

Orla shook her head. “Lein.”

“Why not?”

“Because my father did that to me.”

“So you've said.”

“Lein, lein. I mean, after he gave me my marthwiloros, he used me as a wheelbarrow.”

“He forced you to be a sherpa?” said Kathleen crossly.

“Lein. A wheelbarrow. He made me carry anything and everything. So I tried to fill it up so that there'd be no room for that. It turns out the space itself is more...malleable. That's largely why I have such a miscellaneous assortment of items in there. And what you saw is really only about a quarter of what I have.”

“No wonder you never carried much luggage on tour,” said Marido. Hiccup.

Orla shrugged. “Didn't need it. And I thought I'd gotten over what Father did to me.” She looked at Neil. “But it seems I haven't.”

“Well, I don't mind using mine as a wheelbarrow,” said Marido. She cocked her thumb over her shoulder. “Load me up!” That brought some laughs.

Kathleen looked at Marido. “So have you any thoughts about what you're going to do next? I mean, you're not going back on tour or anything are you?”

“She has a point,” said John. “Kind of hard to travel and perform when nothing works.”

Marido sighed. “I'm...going away.”

Kathleen nearly started. Was Marido really implying what she seemed to be? Would they never see her again?

“Away?” said Noel, “Like, into the Uttermost West?”

Marido chuckled ruefully. “No, no, nothing like that. At least, I don't think so. But I belong with my people. Especially given our refugee status. And I'll have to think of the baby. Oh, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against any of you, really. I do love you all. It's just...he or she's Ingarian and should be raised among Ingarians. In a way, I'm a child of two worlds and while I think that'll ultimately be a good thing, it's also highly confusing. And I'll probably remarry at some point. My child will need a father. That means I need to meet some more Ingarian men. Which means having a lot more contact with my own kind. Which means leaving here, maybe for good.” She fought back a tear. “It breaks my heart, really it does. I'll miss you all terribly, but it's something I have to do. I'll come back if I can, but...”

A sound from somewhere outside caught their attention. “Bring out your dead!” called a man's voice. Everyone abruptly stopped eating and looked in that direction.

Kathleen recognized that call and not just from Monty Python. “Oh, dear,” she said darkly.

John stood up from the table. “That was delicious...erm...ladies, but...”

“Oh, that's no trouble,” said Orla.

“I can put the leftovers in my marthwiloros, if you'd like,” said Marido.

Kathleen and John looked at her.

“Eh?” said Marido.

“That just sounds...weird,” said Kathleen.

“It feels weird, too.” Hiccup.

Kathleen noticed that Marido's hiccups seemed to be tapering off. She figured that to be a good sign.

John strode toward the front door.

“John, do be careful,” said Kathleen.

John undid the locks and cracked the door. “What do you want?” he called.

“You know bloody well what we want,” came the reply.

John closed the door and looked at Kathleen. She could see fear in his eyes. She stood up and walked over to him. She heard the others behind her doing the same. He opened the door again.

An abrupt _thunk_ turned into an arrow vibrating malevolently in the planks. John quickly slammed it again and slid the locks into place. “We have a problem,” he said, as he turned and rushed into the other room.

“Can you be more specific?” said Neil.

John returned a moment later, carrying bows and arrows. He handed one to Noel and another to Kathleen. She took it reluctantly. She really hated violence. She and her husband had always insisted that there was always an alternative. Feeling forced to use it since things had Changed made her feel ashamed.

“Raiders,” said John.

“And they're good shots,” said Kathleen. She pulled aside a lock of hair to reveal a missing section of ear lobe.

“Oh, good God!” exclaimed Marido. “Ya-Mum, are you okay?”

“It still hurts a little,” said Kathleen, “but it's healing. It frightened me more than anything.”

“It frightened _you_?” said John.

Kathleen smiled and gave her husband a peck on the cheek.

“So what do they want?” asked Ray.

“Food, mostly,” said John.

“I kept telling people to plant bigger gardens,” said Kathleen, “but, no. Everyone's been addicted to the supermarket.”

“You said, 'mostly,'” said Neil. “Do I want to know?”

“Not really,” said John.

“Give us your women,” said the voice, “and we'll spare the rest of you!”

“Oh, no, they didn't just say that,” said Orla. She reached out her hand and her staff flew across the room and into her grasp.

“Are you a Jedi?” Noel asked.

Orla grinned.

“Ya-Orla?” said Neil. “Please don't make a mess of our hosts' yard.”

Orla looked at Neil, then stepped to one of the windows. “Over our dead bodies!” she called.

“That could be arranged!”

“I think it would rather be the other way 'round, actually.”

Something thumped heavily against the door and something shattered. Kathleen and John exchanged glances. Forty years of marriage were more than enough for her to have learned his “I'm scared to death and trying not to show it” look.

“What was that?” she asked.

Before anyone could answer another thud-shatter sounded against an outside wall, and then a third.

“Does anyone else smell smoke?” Ray asked.

Everyone paused and sniffed the air.

“Oh, pull the other one,” said Neil. He dove for his weapons propped against the wall. He grabbed his bow with one hand, then flung his pack across the room with the other, a couple of pieces of its contents spilling out onto the floor.

Ray followed suit, grabbing Rosemary's pack as well.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Rosemary.

Something flew through the open window and shattered on the opposite wall. A wide swath of it burst into flames. Kathleen screeched, then dove into the kitchen, filled a pitcher of water, then rushed back into the living room.

She was just in time to see Orla level her staff at the outside wall. Some sort of distortion leaped out of it and slammed against the exterior wall. For a moment, nothing happened. Then she watched in horror as the entire side of the building slid outward. It ground along the courtyard pavers and slammed into the opposite side where Marido and the others had entered the day before.

The terrible noise of twisting, tearing wood and wood grinding on stone filled Kathleen's ears. It lasted only a few moments that felt like an hour. When the side of the house crashed against the other side of the courtyard, yelling and screaming briefly added to the din. Then it grew silent, save for some muted cursing and crying.

For several moments, everything was still. Kathleen felt the pitcher in her hand tilt forward, slipping from her weakening grasp. Movement out of the corner of her eye ripped her attention away from the carnage.

Ray grabbed the water. “Well, don't just stand there,” he said. He took two strides and tossed the water on the fire now coating a large swath of wall. The flame spluttered, then flared back up. Ray cursed under his breath.

Orla whirled around. Her eyes darted from the fire to each person, then back to the fire. She thrust her staff into the air and began to twirl it. “I hope everyone knows how to swim,” she said.

Kathleen blinked. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

She saw Rosemary, Noel, and Frances shake their heads. To her surprise, Marido nodded. When had _she_ learned to swim? On Ingary? Kathleen started slightly, the realization of what that entailed hitting her again.

A wind picked up. The flames flickered sideways, pulled off the wall, then settled onto the sagging ceiling. Orla kept twirling. “Are you familiar with the Wizard of Oz?” Orla asked, her voice carrying above the wind.

“Oh, no, you're not!” said Neil.

“What are you talking about?” John asked.

“I have a very bad feeling about this!” Neil pulled something from his pouch, a small mirror from the look of it. He tapped it, waited a few moments, then said loudly, “Uncle? Pull the ship as close to shore as you can. Then have Chloe stand by. We...um...well, it looks like we're going to need her services.” Then he tapped on it again and put it away. “Everyone hang onto something! Or someone!”

“Services? Chloe? What are you...?” Kathleen didn't finish her question.

Suddenly, the entire house lurched. The ceiling bent downward. Boards and nails creaked and groaned and squealed. The sound escalated as the house lurched again. After a third time, it kept moving. The landscape moved past where the wall had been. Then she felt the unmistakable sensation that she'd last felt some years before when she'd ridden a carousel. “Oh, no, you're not!” she bellowed.

Orla apparently didn't hear. Neither did everyone else. The house and its contents spun faster and faster. The grinding sound stopped and the whole structure tottered. The ground fell away, slowly at first, then faster and faster, receding into spinning, green shapes far below. Kathleen passed out.

* * *

Celtic Sea, off Dun Garbhan, Irleand  
March 30, CY 1, 2012 AD

Kathleen Nesbitt sat huddled on a low bench in what she'd been told was the common room of the schooner Loriesha, wrapped in a wool blanket and nothing else. Her wet clothes had been taken from her to be laundered somewhere in the bowels of the ship that rocked beneath her. At least, that was what she'd been told. The last thing she remembered was her house flying through the air, its contents spinning around, the whole thing coming apart at the seams. Then she'd awoken to find her clothes missing and herself wrapped in a blanket.

Someone thrust a ceramic mug of steaming liquid toward her. She looked up and into her husband's face. He, too, was wrapped in a blanket and apparently nothing else. He'd overlapped the edges, then pinned it closed with a sturdy penannular brooch.

Kathleen tentatively accepted the proffered beverage and sipped it gingerly. It was...interesting. Some of the flavors she recognized: ginger; cinnamon; nutmeg; lemon balm. Others she didn't. It was complex, whatever it was...and delicious. She took another sip. It felt even better trickling down her throat.

Her eyes flew open and she peered at the mug.

“No,” said John, “I don't think they're trying to poison us.” He sat down next to her.

She smiled despite her misgivings. “How'd you know I was thinking that?” she croaked.

“Because I've been married to you for too long. And because I was thinking it, too.”

“ _Too_ long?” said Kathleen.

John winked at her and grinned. “Besides, if they'd wanted us dead, they'd have simply left us in the sea.”

“I'm still not sure what happened,” she said and sipped again.

“Nor am I. You fainted. Nearly fell out, too. The whole house with all of us in it flew all the way to the coast. Then the whole mess just dropped right in the sea. After that, it was chaos. Me trying to stay afloat with sodden clothes and panicking the whole time about you and the children.

“They were waiting for us, you know. Longboats already in the water. It was as though they knew what Orla was doing. Damned if I do, though. Before we left, I saw Neil talking into that mirror of his.” He shook his head. “James Bond, my arse.

“They had to pull me out and into the boat. I tried to go back in, to get you. But they wouldn't let me. Had to hold me down, they did. Told me to calm down so they could help the others.”

John chuckled and sighed heavily.

“Calm down,” he said. “Like bloody hell I was going to calm down with my family damn near drowning. They were right, though. Then, just like that, you rose up out of the water. I think someone was lifting you from underneath, but I never saw who...or what. They gave you some sort of CPR...or something. It was hard to see. After that, my whole body just went numb.

“You came 'round after they hauled the boat up to the ship.” John sighed again.

A jolt of alarm ran through Kathleen and she felt her whole body stiffen. “Noel...and...”

“Yes, yes,” John interrupted. “They're all safe. In fact, they're over there.” He nodded off to Kathleen's left.

She looked in that direction and felt her tension suddenly release. She exhaled. “Oh, thank God!” Her head swiveled about the room, then back to her husband. “And our daughter? Is she still an alien?”

“Last I checked.”

“If this whole new world thing gets any more surreal, I just might crack.”

A young woman dressed in a wool tunic similar to the one Marido had worn walked over to her. Her dirty-blonde hair was wet and unbrushed, as though she'd recently taken a swim. She looked familiar. “Hello, Missus Nesbitt,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Um...fine, I think. Still a bit numb.”

“Irish water's cold, isn't it?”

Kathleen nodded. “Have we met?”

The woman held out her hand and Kathleen took it. “Chloe Agnew.”

“Ah...right. Mairead's...Marido's...friend in Celtic Woman, yes?”

“Ai.” She paused, then groaned slightly.

“Is something wrong?”

She sighed. “Hard to say. Just glad you're all right. You gave us quite a scare. We weren't expecting anyone to be unconscious _before_ hitting the water. They didn't tell me much, just that 'we're coming in hot.' Wasn't sure what that meant until we saw you coming. Right out of 'Wizard of Oz,' it was. I'd have said it was the strangest thing I've ever seen, if only it was. I guess we're lucky I went to you first.”

“That was you?” said John. “Lifting her up?”

Chloe chuckled. “What was I supposed to do, let you all drown? Besides, it keeps me busy while I wait.”

“You have SCUBA equipment?”

Chloe winced. “Erm...not exactly.”

“Wait for what?” Kathleen asked.

Chloe looked toward a stairway that led down below decks. “My sister's in surgery,” she said.

Kathleen felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Surgery for what?”

“Plenty. Dehydration, broken bones, internal organ damage, head trauma. But not as bad as...” Chloe looked down and squeezed her eyes shut. After several moments, she opened them, looked up at the ceiling, sighed heavily, then looked back at Kathleen. “Well, it's bad.”

“Oh, dear Lord! Is she...going to...to...?”

“Die? Not likely...or so they say. But it's supposed to take a few days.”

“Days?” said John. “For surgery?”

Chloe looked sharply at John. “Well, you can't expect all that to heal in an hour, even with magical intervention, now, can you?” she said, sounding very much like an Irish Mary Poppins. Then she blinked, pressed two fingers to her forehead and groaned. “Oh, botheration...”

“What...?” Kathleen began.

“Nothing,” Chloe interrupted. “It's just...I never dreamed I'd ever end up accepting magic as a real...thing. Wouldn't have if they hadn't fixed my ankle with it.”

“The...crash in Wales?”

Chloe nodded. “Neil talks a lot, doesn't he?”

“Not so much, actually,” said John. “He was more...need-to-know. In fact, he let Mair...Marido...do most of the talking...and Orla.”

“Hard to use her real name, isn't it?”

Kathleen nodded. “You have no idea.”

“Well,” said Chloe pensively, “she _is_ my best friend. But you raised her, so...” She shrugged, then grinned. “But my best friend is an alien. Brilliant, isn't it!”

Kathleen saw Neil Perry ascend the stairway and step silently up behind Chloe. “Ya-Chloe?” he said.

Chloe jumped and stifled a yelp.

“Sorry,” said Neil.

“How's Naomi?” Chloe asked.

“Resting. We're not done with her...not by a long shot. But considering how...demanding...magical surgery is...well, you remember how it was with just your ankle, don't you?”

Chloe exhaled. “Wish I didn't. Not sure what was worse...that, or...changing back.”

“Anyway, we've reversed all the organ failure. We're letting her body adjust before starting in on her breaks. That's scheduled for tomorrow. She's been in a lot of pain. You could see it in her eyes.”

Chloe closed her eyes, visibly fighting back tears. It was painful just seeing it. Neil reached out and took Chloe gently by her shoulders. “She'll be okay. Remember, your sister's in very good hands...the best in the world.”

“Are you _sure_ there's no such thing as magical anesthesia?” said Chloe flatly.

“Well...no, but if there were, I think Aunt Sophie would know about it. Mum's been pushing her to research it, but...well, I think you've noticed how stubborn she can be.”

Chloe chortled. “Ai, but I really like her. For all that she doesn't have much fashion sense.”

“Oh, she does. Just...her own kind. And remember, she's Ingarian. Their sense of aesthetics can be...different than ours.” He smiled disarmingly. “You'll get used to it. That is, assuming you spend enough time with us.”

“You know,” said John, “now that I think about it, he does kind of look like Bond.”

Neil looked toward John with a raised eyebrow.

“Does he, now?” said Kathleen.

“Oh,” said Chloe, “don't tell me you haven't noticed?”

Kathleen peered at Neil. She'd been so distracted by the whole thing with her adopted daughter, she hadn't spared much attention for anything else. Now that Chloe mentioned it, though, Neil did at least bear himself like Bond...or at least, someone who, in a few years, could have made a passable Welsh Bond.

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Noel from a nearby table. “Bond had gadgets. Neil has, erm, magic.”

Neil chuckled. “How do you think Q managed to put a laser into a watch? Or high explosives into a ballpoint pen? Or make a car that turns into a submarine?”

“Q was a...a wizard?”

Neil laughed. “We generally prefer 'mage.' But, no, it was all movie magic. Unless you're watching with my uncle. He'll have you believing it all. And actually, though, turns out most of it's possible with real magic...or so Uncle Howell says. Seriously, though, you do _not_ want to watch James Bond movies with him. At least, not unless you have a desire to go bug-shagging nuts.” He sighed. “Not that we'll be able to actually do that ever again.” He practically growled that.

“We're still having trouble with this whole...magic...thing,” said John.

Kathleen gave a snort. That was somewhat of an understatement. “I'm still trying to wrap my brain around my daughter being an alien. I mean, she's clearly the same person we raised and I love her and am proud of her and everything. It's just...weird.”

“I know the feeling,” said a familiar voice from behind her.

Kathleen started, nearly sloshing her tea. She looked up and into the eyes of her daughter—the adopted one. The blue, slightly lavender-tinted irises smiled back at her. She couldn't help but smile in return. She worked one arm out from the blanket and hugged Marido. “Thank God you're okay,” she breathed.

Marido returned the hug with both arms squeezing tightly. “No, thank Orla...for teaching me how to swim. And thank Chloe for rescuing _you_.”

Kathleen pulled back after a moment. “I thought you said she couldn't swim.”

“I did. And she can't. At least, not the way you'd think.”

“What's that mean?”

“You should ask her.”

“Maybe I will.” Kathleen cocked her head slightly. “Your eyes really are lavender. _Why_ are they lavender?”

“Pigmentation.”

“Not really,” said Noel. “Irises really only have melanin. You'll have a relatively dark epithelium and a clear stroma. So blue eyes, for example, don't really have blue pigmentation.”

“That's true,” said Marido, “for human eyes. But Ingarian eyes do, in fact, have several different pigments. Some of us have eye color few of you would even imagine.” She laughed. “Oh, I do hope you'll stay and get to know my people. We really are a lot like each other.”

Neil cleared his throat. Both Kathleen and Marido looked up at him. “You know, ya-Marido, if I weren't married and you weren't recently widowed...” He grinned.

“If I weren't recently widowed, my husband would still be alive,” Marido growled. “Besides, I'm old enough to be your mother...theoretically.”

Noel laughed. “I don't recall Bond going for older women anyway. Even ones as pretty as you. But don't tell anyone I said that.”

“Being cheeky, are we?” said Marido.

“I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh, really? You mean the one where two alien women held you captive in their clutches?”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Yes...I would.”

Neil stepped over, grabbed Marido and kissed her on the forehead. “I meant what I said, though.”

Marido rolled her eyes. “Somehow, though, 'Perry...Neil Perry,' just doesn't have quite the same ring to it.”

“James Bond did get married once, though,” said John.

“Ai, but she died at the end of the movie.”

“And it nearly destroyed him,” said Neil. “Like it would me if Nalaya were to die prematurely.” The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. “And now, since you four have joined us, we need to go over a few rules.”

“Rules?” said Noel. “There are rules?”

“That's it,” said Frances to Neil. “You've officially shattered the James Bond illusion.”

Neil tipped his head back and laughed. “You people are funny. Anyhow...” He went on to cover general water and shipboard safety, food segregation, points of order including chores and other duties, swimming and combat lessons, the provisional chain of command, and the situation with his father's ship Amphitrite. Kathleen found it all to be rather commonsense.

“In addition,” said Neil, “there's to be no leaving of anything glass or ceramic on tables. There's been a rash of things sliding off and breaking, leaving dangerous shards all over the deck. So we've made these special boxes for them.” He walked to a long bar and tapped on a wooden rectangle sticking up.

“This way, they'll stay put. It's not such a big deal during calm seas, but things got a bit choppy in Scilly yesterday. And, of course, just because things are calm now...” He gazed out a large portal into the drizzle outside. “...that doesn't mean they'll stay that way. In fact, you can guarantee they'll get worse...a _lot_ worse. Maybe not tomorrow, or even next week. But there's been talk of crossing the Atlantic and I've heard horror stories about some of the waves out there. We're probably going to have to review and refine the loose-objects rules even further before attempting that.”

“Does this mean we're...here for a while?” John asked.

Neil shrugged. “That's up to you. We can put you ashore if you'd like, but, erm...” He looked over his shoulder. “...where would you go? You do have other family, don't you?”

Kathleen felt herself tense.

“Not so much,” said John.

“He's right,” said Kathleen. “We really don't have a home to go back to.”

Noel exhaled heavily, then looked at Marido. “I suppose we'll be sailing with you into the Uttermost West, then.”

“You know,” said Neil pensively, “with the addition of you four, it's going to be hard to swing a dead fish around here without hitting a professional musician.”

Marido chortled. “And you can all get to know some of my people.”

“I think I'd like that,” said Kathleen. She meant it. And it gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Marido laid her head on Kathleen's shoulder and sighed contentedly as Kathleen put an arm around her adopted daughter. Soon, a familiar rumbling sound rose from Marido's vicinity. Kathleen blinked. No, she corrected herself, it was coming from Marido, but it wasn't one she ever would have expected. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frances looking under the tables.

“Where's the cat?” said Noel.

“Erm,” said John slowly, “I don't think it's a cat.”

“Marido?” said Kathleen.

“Mm?” Marido noised.

“Are you...purring?”

“Mm-hm,” Marido replied. She stayed where she was and the purring sound continued.

“Why are you purring?”

“I'm content,” she murmured.

“ _How_ are you purring?” Noel asked.

“No idea,” Marido murmured. “We just do.”

“It's...soothing,” said Kathleen. In fact, it sounded and felt exactly like a cat's purr.

Neil chuckled. Kathleen glanced up at him. “I love it when they do that,” he said.

“Do...all Ingarians...purr?” Frances asked.

“As far as I know,” said Neil. He smiled. “It's especially nice having Nalaya on one side and the cat on the other. Stereo purring. The cadence is a bit different, what with the cat's faster breathing. But it's _very_ relaxing.” His grin broadened. “But she _really_ gets going right after...”

“Right, right,” Frances interrupted. “I, um, think we get it.”

“No, we don't,” said Noel facetiously.

Marido's purring abruptly stopped. “Did you know Shim and I once had a fight...I mean, a _real_ shouting, almost fisticuffs fight...over which one of us purred louder during afterglow?”

“Erm...” John began.

“Then after a few minutes,” Marido continued, “we realized just how utterly silly it was.” She smiled. “Then we had make-up sex!”

“I did _not_ need to know that!” said John.

“I don't know,” said Noel, “I could stand to hear a little more.”

“Ya-Noel!” Marido scolded.

“Noel,” said Kathleen, “you interrupted my...quasi-feline therapy.”

Marido looked up at Kathleen. She really did have beautiful eyes. “Oh, I'm a quasi-feline now, am I?”

Kathleen smiled. “Well...I was rather enjoying that. But why haven't you purred before? Surely this isn't the first time you've been content.”

“I've had to...suppress it. As part of my disguise. But now I feel...free. I don't have to pretend anymore. I've had a lot of heartache as of late...Shim...the fact that my child will never know him...the disaster that befell my people...Orla's family...your home...the Shift. But despite all that...I don't know why I'm so happy, but I am. Maybe it's the relief of having told you all about what I really am and that you haven't disowned me or tried to cut me into wafer-thin sections or anything.”

John moved over to Marido's other side and put his arm around her. “When I look into your eyes, I still see the same you behind them. And I realize that no matter what, you'll always be my little girl and I'll always love you.”  
Marido sighed and leaned against John. As he and Kathleen squeezed Marido between them, she started purring again. Kathleen chuckled slightly. No, things were not going to be boring. She almost didn't care that she'd lost her house. She had most of her family and she had a feeling she had a new home, too. She knew her other sons could take care of themselves and prayed they'd eventually be reunited. She barely noticed when Noel and Frances joined their parents, nor when Chloe and Orla had moved closer, nor when Neil had left the room. The young man had been right, though: family didn't have to be related.


End file.
